FROM  PLACE  TO  PLACE 


BY    IRVIN    S.    COBB 


FICTION 

FROM  PLACE  TO  PLACE 

THOSE  TIMES  AND  THESE 

LOCAL  COLOR 

OLD  JUDGE  PRIEST 

BACK  HOME 

THE  ESCAPE  OF  MR.  TRIMM 

WIT  AND   HUMOR 

THE  LIFE  OF  THE  PARTY 
EATING  IN  Two  OR  THREE  LAN 
GUAGES 
FIBBLE,  D.  D. 

"SPEAKING  OF  OPERATIONS " 

EUROPE  REVISED 
ROUGHING  IT  DE  LUXE 
COBB'S  BILL  OF  FARE 
COBB'S  ANATOMY 

MISCELLANY 

THE  THUNDERS  OF  SILENCE 
THE  GLORY  OF  THE  COMING 
PATHS  OF  GLORY 
"SPEAKING  OF  PRUSSIANS " 


GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


FROM  PLACE 
TO  PLACE 


BY 

IRVIN  S.  COBB 

AUTHOR  OF  "OLD  JUDGE  PRIEST," 
"SPEAKING  OF  OPERATIONS—,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT.  1920, 
BT  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1918,  1919,  BT  THE  CUBTIS  PUBLISHING  COMPAH» 
COPYRIGHT,  1918,  BY  THE  FRANK  A.  MDNSEY  Co. 

COPYHIGHT,  1918,  BY  THE  RED  BOOK  COBPOBATIOB 
PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


TO 
CHARLES  R.  FLINT,  ESQ. 


€62748 


CONTENTS 


I  THE  GALLOWSMITH 11 

II  THE  THUNDERS  OF  SILENCE 55 

III  BOTS  WILL  BE  BOYS 96 

IV  THE  LUCK  PIECE 156 

V  QUALITY  FOLKS 206 

VI  JOHN  J.  COINCIDENCE 259 

VII  WHEN  AUGUST  THE  SECOND  WRS  APRIL  THE  FIRST   .  802 

VIII  HOODWINKED 332 

IX  THE  BULL  CALLED  EMILY  .                382 


[vii] 


FROM  PLACE  TO  PLACE 


CHAPTER  I       £  j    ; 
THE    GALLOWSMITH 


THIS  man  that  I  have  it  in  mind  to  write 
about  was,  at  the  time  of  which  I  write, 
an  elderly  man,  getting  well  along 
toward  sixty-five.  He  was  tall  and 
slightly  stooped,  with  long  arms,  and  big, 
gnarled,  competent-looking  hands,  which 
smelled  of  yellow  laundry  soap,  and  had  huge, 
tarnished  nails  on  the  fingers.  He  had  mild, 
pale  eyes,  a  light  blue  as  to  colour,  with  heavy 
sacs  under  them,  and  whitish  whiskers,  spindly 
and  thin,  like  some  sort  of  second-growth, 
which  were  so  cut  as  to  enclose  his  lower  face 
in  a  nappy  fringe,  extending  from  ear  to  ear 
under  his  chin.  He  suffered  from  a  chronic 
heart  affection,  and  this  gave  to  his  skin  a  pro 
nounced  and  unhealthy  pallor.  He  was  neat 
and  prim  in  his  personal  habits,  kind  to  dumb 
animals,  and  tolerant  of  small  children.  He 
was  inclined  to  be  miserly;  certainly  in  money 
matters  he  was  most  prudent  and  saving.  He 
had  the  air  about  him  of  being  lonely.  His 
name  was  Tobias  Dramm.  In  the  town  where 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

he  lived  he  was  commonly  known  as  Uncle 
Tobe  Dramm.  By  profession  he  was  a  public 
hangman.  You  might  call  him  a  gallowsmith. 
He  hanged  men  for  hire. 

So  x&r  as  the  available  records  show,  this 
Tobias  Dramm  was  the  only  man  of  his  calling 
OQ  t^iis .  Continent.  In  himself  he  constituted 
a  specialty  and  a  monopoly.  The  fact  that 
he  had  no  competition  did  not  make  him  care 
less  in  the  pursuit  of  his  calling.  On  the  con 
trary,  it  made  him  precise  and  painstaking. 
As  one  occupying  a  unique  position,  he  realized 
that  he  had  a  reputation  to  sustain,  and  capably 
he  sustained  it.  In  the  Western  Hemisphere 
he  was,  in  the  trade  he  followed,  the  nearest 
modern  approach  to  the  paid  executioners  of 
olden  times  in  France  who  went,  each  of  them, 
by  the  name  of  the  city  or  province  wherein 
he  was  stationed,  to  do  torturing  and  maiming 
and  killing  in  the  gracious  name  of  the  king. 

A  generous  government,  committed  to  a 
belief  in  the  efficacy  of  capital  punishment, 
paid  Tobias  Dramm  at  the  rate  of  seventy-five 
dollars  a  head  for  hanging  offenders  convicted 
of  the  hanging  crime,  which  was  murder.  He 
averaged  about  four  hangings  every  three 
months  or,  say,  about  nine  hundred  dollars 
a  year — all  clear  money. 

The  manner  of  Mr.  Dramm's  having  entered 

upon    the   practise   of    this    somewhat   grisly 

trade  makes  in  itself  a  little  tale.     He  was  a 

lifelong  citizen  of  the  town   of  Chickaloosa, 

[12] 


THE     GALLOWS MITH 

down  in  the  Southwest,  where  there  stood  a 
State  penitentiary,  and  where,  during  the 
period  of  which  I  am  speaking,  the  Federal 
authorities  sent  for  confinement  and  punish 
ment  the  criminal  sweepings  of  half  a  score 
of  States  and  Territories.  This  was  before  the 
government  put  up  prisons  of  its  own,  and 
while  still  it  parcelled  out  its  human  liabilities 
among  State-owned  institutions,  paying  so 
much  apiece  for  their  keep.  When  the  gov 
ernment  first  began  shipping  a  share  of  its 
felons  to  Chickaloosa,  there  came  along,  in  one 
clanking  caravan  of  ..shackled  malefactors,  a 
half-breed,  part  MexicaiTand  the  rest  of  him 
Indian,  who  had  robbed  a  territorial  post- 
office  and  incidentally  murdered  the  post 
master  thereof.  Wherefore  this  half-breed  was 
under  sentence  to  expiate  his  greater  misdeed 
on  a  given  date,  between  the  hours  of  sunrise 
and  sunset,  and  after  a  duly  prescribed  manner, 
namely:  by  being  hanged  by  the  neck  until  he 
was  dead. 

At  once  a  difficulty  and  a  complication  arose. 
The  warden  of  the  penitentiary  at  Chickaloosa 
was  perfectly  agreeable  to  the  idea  of  keeping 
and  caring  for  those  felonious  wards  of  the 
government  who  were  put  in  his  custody  to 
serve  terms  of  imprisonment,  holding  that 
such  disciplinary  measures  fell  within  the  scope 
of  his  sworn  duty.  But  when  it  came  to  the 
issue  of  hanging  any  one  of  them,  he  drew 
the  line  most  firmly.  As  he  pointed  out,  he 

[13] 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

was  not  a  government  agent.  He  derived  his 
authority  and  drew  his  salary  not  from  Wash 
ington,  D.  C.,  but  from  a  State  capital  several 
hundreds  of  miles  removed  from  Washington. 
Moreover,  he  was  a  zealous  believer  in  the 
principle  of  State  sovereignty.  As  a  soldier 
of  the  late  Southern  Confederacy,  he  had 
fought  four  years  to  establish  that  doctrine. 
Conceded,  that  the  cause  for  which  he  fought 
had  been  defeated;  nevertheless  his  views  upon 
the  subject  remained  fixed  and  permanent. 
He  had  plenty  of  disagreeable  jobs  to  do  with 
out  stringing  up  bad  men  for  Uncle  Sam;  such 
was  the  attitude  the  warden  took.  The  sheriff 
of  the  county  of  which  Chickaloosa  was  the 
county-seat,  likewise  refused  to  have  a  hand 
in  the  impending  affair,  holding  it — and  per 
haps  very  properly — to  be  no  direct  concern 
of  his,  either  officially  or  personally. 

Now  the  government  very  much  wanted  the 
hybrid  hanged.  The  government  had  been  put 
to  considerable  trouble  and  no  small  expense 
to  catch  him  and  try  him  and  convict  him  and 
transport  him  to  the  place  where  he  was  at 
present  confined.  Day  and  date  for  the  execu 
tion  of  the  law's  judgment  having  been  fixed, 
a  scandal  and  possibly  a  legal  tangle  would 
ensue  were  there  delay  in  the  premises.  It 
was  reported  that  a  full  pardon  had  been  offered 
to  a  long-term  convict  on  condition  that  he 
carry  out  the  court's  mandate  upon  the  body 
of  the  condemned  mongrel,  and  that  he  had 

[14] 


THE      GALLOWS  MITH 


refused,  even  though  the  price  were  freedom 
for  himself. 

In  this  serious  emergency,  a  volunteer  in  the 
person  of  Tobias  Dramm  came  forward.  Until 
then  he  had  been  an  inconspicuous  unit  in  the 
life  of  the  community.  He  was  a  live-stock 
dealer  on  a  small  scale,  making  his  head 
quarters  at  one  of  the  town  livery  stables. 
He  was  a  person  of  steady  habits,  with  a  repu 
tation  for  sobriety  and  frugality  among  his 
neighbours.  The  government,  so  to  speak, 
jumped  at  the  chance.  Without  delay,  his 
offer  was  accepted.  There  was  no  prolonged 
haggling  over  terms,  either.  He  himself  fixed 
the  cost  of  the  job  at  seventy-five  dollars;  this 
figure  to  include  supervision  of  the  erection 
of  the  gallows,  testing  of  the  apparatus,  and  the 
actual  operation  itself. 

So,  on  the  appointed  day,  at  a  certain  hour, 
to  wit,  a  quarter  past  six  o'clock  in  the  morn 
ing,  just  outside  the  prison  walls,  and  in  the 
presence  of  the  proper  and  ordained  number 
of  witnesses,  Uncle  Tobe,  with  a  grave,  un 
troubled  face,  and  hands  which  neither  fumbled 
nor  trembled,  tied  up  the  doomed  felon  and 
hooded  his  head  in  a  black-cloth  bag,  and  fitted 
a  noose  about  his  neck.  The  drop  fell  at 
eighteen  minutes  past  the  hour.  Fourteen 
minutes  later,  following  brief  tests  of  heart  and 
pulse,  the  two  attending  physicians  agreed 
that  the  half-breed  was  quite  satisfactorily 
defunct.  They  likewise  coincided  in  the  opinion 


FROM      PLACE     TO      PLACE 

that  the  hanging  had  been  conducted  with 
neatness,  and  with  swiftness,  and  with  the  least 
possible  amount  of  physical  suffering  for  the 
deceased.  One  of  the  doctors  went  so  far  as  to 
congratulate  Mr.  Dramm  upon  the  tidiness 
of  his  handicraft.  He  told  him  that  in  all  his 
experience  he  had  never  seen  a  hanging  pass 
off  more  smoothly,  and  that  for  an  amateur, 
Dramm  had  done  splendidly.  To  this  com 
pliment  Uncle  Tobe  replied,  in  his  quiet  and 
drawling  mode  of  speech,  that  he  had  studied 
the  whole  thing  out  in  advance. 

"Ef  I  should  keep  on  with  this  way  of  makin' 
a  livin'  I  don't  'low  ever  to  let  no  slip-ups 
occur,"  he  added  with  simple  directness.  There 
was  no  suggestion  of  the  morbid  in  his  voice  or 
manner  as  he  said  this,  but  instead  merely  a 
deep  personal  satisfaction. 

Others  present,  having  been  made  sick  and 
faint  by  the  shock  of  seeing  a  human  being 
summarily  jerked  into  the  hereafter,  went 
away  hurriedly  without  saying  anything  at  all. 
But  afterward  thinking  it  over  when  they 
were  more  composed,  they  decided  among 
themselves  that  Uncle  Tobe  had  carried  it  off 
with  an  assurance  and  a  skill  which  qualified 
him  most  aptly  for  future  undertakings  along 
the  same  line;  that  he  was  a  born  hangman,  if 
ever  there  was  one. 

This  was  the  common  verdict.  So,  there 
after,  by  a  tacit  understanding,  the  ex-cattle- 
buyer  became  the  regular  government  hang- 
[16] 


THE     GALLOWS  MITH 


man.  He  had  no  official  title  nor  any  warrant 
in  writing  for  the  place  he  filled.  He  worked 
by  the  piece,  as  one  might  say,  and  not  by  the 
week  or  month.  Some  years  he  hanged  more 
men  than  in  other  years,  but  the  average  per 
annum  was  about  twelve.  He  had  been  hang 
ing  them  now  for  going  on  ten  years. 

It  was  as  though  he  had  been  designed  and 
created  for  the  work.  He  hanged  villainous 
men  singly,  sometimes  by  pairs,  and  rarely  in 
groups  of  threes,  always  without  a  fumble  or  a 
hitch.  Once,  on  a  single  morning,  he  hanged  an 
even  half-dozen,  these  being  the  chief  fruitage 
of  a  busy  term  of  the  Federal  court  down  in  the 
Indian  country  where  the  combination  of  a 
crowded  docket,  an  energetic  young  district 
attorney  with  political  ambitions,  and  a 
businesslike  presiding  judge  had  produced  what 
all  unprejudiced  and  fair-minded  persons  agreed 
were  marvellous  results,  highly  beneficial  to  the 
moral  atmosphere  of  the  territory  and  calculated 
to  make  potential  evil-doers  stop  and  think. 
Four  of  the  six  had  been  members  of  an  especially 
desperate  gang  of  train  and  bank  robbers. 
The  remaining  two  had  forfeited  their  right  to 
keep  on  living  by  slaying  deputy  marshals. 
Each,  with  malice  aforethought  and  with  his 
own  hands,  had  actually  killed  some  one  or  had 
aided  and  abetted  in  killing  some  one. 

This  sextuple  hanging  made  a  lot  of  talk, 
naturally.  The  size  of  it  alone  commanded 
the  popular  interest.  Besides,  the  personnel  of 
[17] 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

the  group  of  villains  was  such  as  to  lend  an 
aspect  of  picturesqueness  to  the  final  proceed 
ings.  The  sextet  included  a  full-blooded 
Cherokee;  a  consumptive  ex-dentist  out  of 
Kansas,  who  from  killing  nerves  in  teeth  had 
progressed  to  killing  men  in  cold  premeditation; 
a  lank  West  Virginia  mountaineer  whose  family 
name  was  the  name  of  a  clan  prominent  in  one 
of  the  long-drawn-out  hill-feuds  of  his  native 
State;  a  plain  bad  man,  whose  chief  claim  to 
distinction  was  that  he  hailed  originally  from 
the  Bowery  in  New  York  City;  and  one,  the 
worst  of  them  all,  who  was  said  to  be  the  son 
of  a  pastor  in  a  New  England  town.  One  by 
one,  unerringly  and  swiftly,  Uncle  Tobe 
launched  them  through  his  scaffold  floor  to  get 
whatever  deserts  await  those  who  violate  the 
laws  of  God  and  man  by  the  violent  shedding 
of  innocent  blood.  When  the  sixth  and  last 
gunman  came  out  of  the  prison  proper  into  the 
prison  enclosure — it  was  the  former  dentist,  and 
being  set,  as  the  phrase  runs,  upon  dying  game, 
he  wore  a  twisted  grin  upon  his  bleached  face — 
there  were  six  black  boxes  under  the  platform, 
five  of  them  occupied,  with  their  lids  all  in 
place,  and  one  of  them  yet  empty  and  open. 
In  the  act  of  mounting  the  steps  the  condemned 
craned  his  head  sidewise,  and  at  the  sight  of 
those  coffins  stretching  along  six  in  a  row  on  the 
gravelled  courtyard,  he  made  a  cheap  and  sorry 
gibe.  But  when  he  stood  beneath  the  cross- 
arm  to  be  pinioned,  his  legs  played  him  traitor. 


THE    GALLOWSMITH 

Those  craven  knees  of  his  gave  way  under  him, 
so  that  trusties  had  to  hold  the  weakening 
ruffian  upright  while  the  executioner  snugged 
the  halter  about  his  throat. 

On  this  occasion  Uncle  Tobe  elucidated  the 
creed  and  the  code  of  his  profession  for  a  reporter 
who  had  come  all  the  way  down  from  St.  Louis 
to  report  the  big  hanging  for  his  paper.  Having 
covered  the  hanging  at  length,  the  reporter 
stayed  over  one  more  day  at  the  Palace  Hotel 
in  Chickaloosa  to  do  a  special  article,  which 
would  be  in  part  a  character  sketch  and  in 
part  a  straight  interview,  on  the  subject  of  the 
hangman.  The  article  made  a  full  page  spread 
in  the  Sunday  edition  of  the  young  man's  paper, 
and  thereby  a  reputation,  which  until  this  time 
had  been  more  or  less  local,  was  given  what 
approximated  a  national  notoriety.  Through 
a  somewhat  general  reprinting  of  what  the  young 
man  had  written,  and  what  his  paper  had 
published,  the  country  at  large  eventually 
became  acquainted  with  an  ethical  view-point 
which  was  already  fairly  familiar  to  nearly  every 
resident  in  and  about  Chickaloosa.  Reading 
the  narrative,  one  living  at  a  distance  got  an 
accurate  picture  of  a  personality  elevated  above 
the  commonplace  solely  by  the  role  which  its 
owner  filled;  a  picture  of  an  old  man  thoroughly 
sincere  and  thoroughly  conscientious;  a  man 
dull,  earnest,  and  capable  to  his  limits;  a  man 
who  was  neither  morbid  nor  imaginative,  but 
filled  with  rather  a  stupid  gravity;  a  man 

__ 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

canny  about  the  pennies  and  affectionately 
inclined  toward  the  dollars;  a  man  honestly 
imbued  with  the  idea  that  he  was  a  public 
servant  performing  a  necessary  public  service; 
a  man  without  nerves,  but  in  all  other  essentials 
a  small-town  man  with  a  small-town  mind;  in 
short,  saw  Uncle  Tobe  as  he  really  was.  The 
reporter  did  something  else  which  marked  him 
as  a  craftsman.  Without  stating  the  fact  in 
words,  he  nevertheless  contrived  to  create  in 
the  lines  which  he  wrote  an  atmosphere  of  self- 
defence  enveloping  the  old  man — or  perhaps  the 
better  phrase  would  be  self -extenuation.  The 
reader  was  made  to  perceive  that  Dramm,  being 
cognizant  and  mildly  resentful  of  the  attitude 
in  which  his  own  little  world  held  him,  by  reason 
of  the  fatal  work  of  his  hands,  sought  after  a 
semiapologetic  fashion  to  offer  a  plea  in  abate 
ment  of  public  judgment,  to  set  up  a  weight  of 
moral  evidence  in  his  own  behalf,  and  behind 
this  in  turn,  and  showing  through  it,  might 
be  sensed  the  shy  pride  of  a  shy  man  for  labour 
undertaken  with  good  motives  and  creditably 
performed.  With  no  more  than  a  pardonable 
broadening  and  exaggeration  of  the  other's  mode 
of  speech,  the  reporter  succeeded  likewise  in 
reproducing  not  only  the  language,  but  the 
wistful  intent  of  what  Uncle  Tobe  said  to  him. 
From  this  interview  I  propose  now  to  quote 
to  the  extent  of  a  few  paragraphs.  This  is 
Uncle  Tobe  addressing  the  visiting  corre 
spondent: 

[20] 


THE     GALLOWS MITH 


"It  stands  to  reason — don't  it? — that  these 
here  sinful  men  have  got  to  be  hung,  an'  that 
somebody  has  got  to  hang  'em.  The  Good 
Book  says  an  eye  fur  an  eye  an'  a  tooth  fur  a 
tooth  an'  a  life  fur  a  life.  That's  perzactly 
whut  it  says,  an'  I'm  one  whut  believes  the 
Bible  frum  kiver  to  kiver.  These  here  boys 
that  they  bring  in  here  have  broke  the  law  of 
Gawd  an'  the  law  of  the  land,  an'  they  jest 
natchelly  got  to  pay  fur  their  devilment. 
That's  so,  ain't  it?  Well,  then,  that  bein'  so,  I 
step  forward  an'  do  the  job.  Ef  they  was  free 
men,  walkin'  around  like  you  an'  me,  I  wouldn't 
lay  the  weight  of  my  little  finger  on  'em  to 
harm  a  single  hair  in  their  haids.  Ef  they 
hadn't  done  nothin'  ag'in'  the  law,  I'd  be  the 
last  one  to  do  'em  a  hurt.  I  wisht  you  could 
make  that  p'int  plain  in  the  piece  you  aim  to 
write,  so's  folks  would  understand  jest  how  I 
feel — so's  they'd  understand  that  I  don't  bear 
no  gredge  ag'inst  any  livin'  creature. 

"Ef  the  job  was  left  to  some  greenhawn  he'd 
mebbe  botch  it  up  an'  make  them  boys  suffer 
more'n  there's  any  call  fur.  Sech  things  have 
happened,  a  plenty  times  before  now  ez  you 
yourself  doubtless  know  full  well.  But  I  don't 
botch  it  up.  I  ain't  braggin'  none  whilst  I'm 
sayin'  this  to  you;  I'm  jest  tellin'  you.  I  kin 
take  an  oath  that  I  ain't  never  botched  up  one 
of  these  jobs  yit,  not  frum  the  very  fust.  The 
warden  or  Dr.  Slattery,  the  prison  physician,  or 
anybody  round  this  town  that  knows  the  full 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

circumstances  kin  tell  you  the  same,  ef  you  ast 
'em.  You  see,  son,  I  ain't  never  nervoused  up 
like  some  men  would  be  in  my  place.  I'm  al 
ways  jest  ez  ca'm  like  ez  whut  you  are  this 
minute.  The  way  I  look  at  it,  I'm  jest  a  chosen 
instrument  of  the  law.  I  regard  it  ez  a  trust 
that  I'm  called  on  to  perform,  on  account  of 
me  havin'  a  natchel  knack  in  that  'special 
direction.  Some  men  have  gifts  fur  one  thing 
an'  some  men  have  gifts  fur  another  thing. 
It  would  seem  this  is  the  perticular  thing — 
hangin'  men — that  I've  .  got  a  gift  fur.  So, 
sech  bein'  the  case,  I  don't  worry  none  about  it 
beforehand,  nor  I  don't  worry  none  after  it's 
all  over  with,  neither.  With  me  handlin'  the 
details  the  whole  thing  is  over  an'  done  with 
accordin'  to  the  law  an'  the  statutes  an'  the 
jedgment  of  the  high  court  in  less  time  than 
some  people  would  take  fussin'  round,  gittin' 
ready.  The  way  I  look  at  it,  it's  a  mercy  an'  a 
blessin'  to  all  concerned  to  have  somebody  in 
charge  that  knows  how  to  hang  a  man. 

"Why,  it's  come  to  sech  a  pass  that  when 
there's  a  hangin'  comin'  off  anywhere  in  this 
part  of  the  country  they  send  fur  me  to  be 
present  ez  a  kind  of  an  expert.  I've  been  to 
hangin's  all  over  this  State,  an'  down  into 
Louisiana,  an'  wunst  over  into  Texas  in  order 
to  give  the  sheriffs  the  benefit  of  my  experience 
an'  my  advice.  I  make  it  a  rule  not  never  to 
take  no  money  fur  doin'  sech  ez  that — only  my 
travelin'  expenses  an'  my  tavern  bills;  that's 

'     "    [22] 


THE     GALLOWSMITH 


all  I  ever  charge  'em.  But  here  in  Chickaloosa 
the  conditions  is  different,  an'  the  gover'mint 
pays  me  seventy-five  dollars  a  hangin'.  I  figger 
that  it's  wuth  it,  too.  The  Bible  says  the 
labourer  is  worthy  of  his  hire.  I  try  to  be  worthy 
of  the  hire  I  git.  I  certainly  aim  to  earn  it — 
an'  I  reckin  I  do  earn  it,  takin'  everything  into 
consideration — the  responsibility  an'  all.  Ef 
there's  any  folks  that  think  I  earn  my  money 
easy — seventy-five  dollars  fur  whut  looks  like 
jest  a  few  minutes'  work — I'd  like  fur  'em  to 
stop  an'  think  ef  they'd  consider  themselves 
qualified  to  hang  ez  many  men  ez  I  have 
without  never  botchin'  up  a  single  job." 

That  was  his  chief  boast,  if  boasting  it  might 
be  called — that  he  never  botched  the  job.  It  is 
the  common  history  of  common  hangmen,  so 
I've  been  told,  that  they  come  after  a  while  to  be 
possessed  of  the  devils  of  cruelty,  and  to  take 
pleasure  in  the  exercise  of  their  most  grim 
calling.  If  this  be  true,  then  surely  Uncle 
Tobe  was  to  all  outward  appearances  an 
exception  to  the  rule.  Never  by  word  or  look 
or  act  was  he  caught  gloating  over  his  victims; 
always  he  exhibited  a  merciful  swiftness  in  the 
dread  preliminaries  and  in  the  act  of  execution 
itself.  At  the  outset  he  had  shown  deftness. 
With  frequent  practise  he  grew  defter  still.  He 
contrived  various  devices  for  expediting  the 
proceeding.  For  instance,  after  prolonged  ex- 

periments,  conducted  in  privacy,  he  evolved  a 
_ 


FROM      PLACE     TO      PLACE 

harnesslike  arrangement  of  leather  belts  and 
straps,  made  all  in  one  piece,  and  fitted  with 
buckles  and  snaffles.  With  this,  in  a  mar 
vellously  brief  space,  he  could  bind  his  man  at 
elbows  and  wrists,  at  knees  and  ankles,  so  that 
in  less  time  almost  than  it  would  take  to  describe 
the  process,  the  latter  stood  upon  the  trap,  as  a 
shape  deprived  of  motion,  fully  caparisoned  for 
the  end.  He  fitted  the  inner  side  of  the  cross- 
piece  of  the  gallows  with  pegs  upon  which  the 
rope  rested,  entirely  out  of  sight  of  him  upon 
whom  it  was  presently  to  be  used,  until  the 
moment  when  Uncle  Tobe,  stretching  a  long  arm 
upward,  brought  it  down,  all  reeved  and 
ready.  He  hit  upon  the  expedient  of  slickening 
the  noose  parts  with  yellow  bar  soap  so  that  it 
would  run  smoothly  in  the  loop  and  tighten 
smartly,  without  undue  tugging.  He  might 
have  used  grease  or  lard,  but  soap  was  tidier, 
and  Uncle  Tobe,  as  has  been  set  forth,  was  a  tidy 
man. 

After  the  first  few  hangings  his  system  began 
to  follow  a  regular  routine.  From  somewhere 
to  the  west  or  southwest  of  Chickaloosa  the 
deputy  marshals  would  bring  in  a  man  con 
signed  to  die.  The  prison  people,  taking  their 
charge  over  from  them,  would  house  him  in  a 
cell  of  a  row  of  cells  made  doubly  tight  and 
doubly  strong  for  such  as  he;  in  due  season  the 
warden  would  notify  Uncle  Tobe  of  the  date 
fixed  for  the  inflicting  of  the  penalty.  Four 
or  five  days  preceding  the  day,  Uncle  Tobe 


THE      GALLOWSMITH 

would  pay  a  visit  to  the  prison,  timing  his 
arrival  so  that  he  reached  there  just  before  the 
exercise  hour  for  the  inmates  of  a  certain  cell- 
tier.  Being  admitted,  he  would  climb  sundry 
flights  of  narrow  iron  stairs  and  pause  just 
outside  a  crisscrossed  door  of  iron  slats  while 
a  turnkey,  entering  that  door  and  locking  it 
behind  him,  would  open  a  smaller  door  set  flat 
in  the  wall  of  damp-looking  grey  stones  and 
invite  the  man  caged  up  inside  to  come  forth 
for  his  daily  walk.  Then,  while  the  captive 
paced  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  narrow 
corridor  back  and  across,  to  and  fro,  up  and 
down,  with  the  futile  restlessness  of  a  cat 
animal  in  a  zoo,  his  feet  clumping  on  the  flagged 
flooring,  and  the  watchful  turnkey  standing  by, 
Uncle  Tobe,  having  flattened  his  lean  form  in  a 
niche  behind  the  outer  lattice,  with  an  appraising 
eye  would  consider  the  shifting  figure  through  a 
convenient  cranny  of  the  wattled  metal  strips. 
He  took  care  to  keep  himself  well  back  out  of 
view,  but  since  he  stood  in  shadow  while  the 
one  he  marked  so  keenly  moved  in  a  flood  of 
daylight  filtering  down  through  a  skylight  in 
the  ceiling  of  the  cell  block,  the  chances  were 
the  prisoner  could  not  have  made  out  the  in 
distinct  form  of  the  stranger  anyhow.  Five 
or  ten  minutes  of  such  scrutiny  of  his  man  was 
all  Uncle  Tobe  ever  desired.  In  his  earlier 
days  before  he  took  up  this  present  employ 
ment,  he  had  been  an  adept  at  guessing  the 
hoof-weight  of  the  beeves  and  swine  in  which 
~  [25] 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

he  dealt.  That  early  experience  stood  him  in 
good  stead  now;  he  took  no  credit  to  himself 
for  his  accuracy  in  estimating  the  bulk  of  a 
living  human  being. 

Downstairs,  on  the  way  out  of  the  place,  if 
by  chance  he  encountered  the  warden  in  his 
office,  the  warden,  in  all  likelihood,  would  say: 
"Well,  how  about  it  this  time,  Uncle  Tobe?" 

And  Uncle  Tobe  would  make  some  such 
answer  as  this: 

"Well,  suh,  accordin'  to  my  reckonin'  this 
here  one  will  heft  about  a  hundred  an'  sixty- 
five  pound,  ez  he  stands  now.  How's  he  takin' 
it,  warden?" 

"Oh,  so-so." 

"He  looks  to  me  like  he  was  broodin'  a  right 
smart,"  the  expert  might  say.  "I  jedge  he 
ain't  relishin'  his  vittles  much,  neither.  Likely 
he'll  worry  three  or  four  pound  more  off'n  his 
bones  'twixt  now  an'  Friday  mornin'.  He 
oughter  run  about  one  hund'ed  an'  sixty  or 
mebbe  one-sixty-one  by  then." 

"How  much  drop  do  you  allow  to  give  him?" 

"Don't  worry  about  that,  suh,"  would  be 
the  answer  given  with  a  contemplative  squint 
of  the  placid,  pale  eye.  "I  reckin  my  cal 
culations  won't  be  very  fur  out  of  the  way,  ef 
any." 

They  never  were,  either. 

On,  the  day  before  the  day,  he  would  be  a 
busy  man,  what  with  superintending  the  fitting 
together  and  setting  up  of  the  painted  lumber 
[26]  


THE      GALLOWS  MITH 


pieces  upon  which  to-morrow's  capital  tragedy 
would  be  played;  and,  when  this  was  done  to 
his  liking,  trying  the  drop  to  see  that  the 
boards  had  not  warped,  and  trying  the  rope  for 
possible  flaws  in  its  fabric  or  weave,  and  proving 
to  his  own  satisfaction  that  the  mechanism  of 
the  wooden  lever  which  operated  to  spring  the 
trap  worked  with  an  instantaneous  smoothness. 
To  every  detail  he  gave  a  painstaking  super 
vision,  guarding  against  all  possible  contin 
gencies.  Regarding  the  trustworthiness  of  the 
rope  he  was  especially  careful.  When  this 
particular  hanging  was  concluded,  the  scaffold 
would  be  taken  apart  and  stored  away  for 
subsequent  use,  but  for  each  hanging  the  gov 
ernment  furnished  a  brand  new  rope,  especially 
made  at  a  factory  in  New  Orleans  at  a  cost  of 
eight  dollars.  The  spectators  generally  cut  the 
rope  up  into  short  lengths  after  it  had  fulfilled 
its  ordained  purpose,  and  carried  the  pieces 
away  for  souvenirs.  So  always  there  was  a 
new  rope  provided,  and  its  dependability  must 
be  ascertained  by  prolonged  and  exhaustive 
tests  before  Uncle  Tobe  would  approve  of  it. 
Seeing  him  at  his  task,  with  his  coat  and  waist 
coat  off,  his  sleeves  rolled  back,  and  his  intent 
mien,  one  realised  why,  as  a  hangman,  he  had 
been  a  success.  He  left  absolutely  nothing  to 
chance.  When  he  was  through  with  his  ex 
perimenting,  the  possibility  of  an  exhibition  of 
the  proneness  of  inanimate  objects  to  misbehave 
in  emergencies  had  been  reduced  to  a  minimum. 
[27] 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

Before  daylight  next  morning  Uncle  Tobe, 
dressed  in  sober  black,  like  a  country  under 
taker,  and  with  his  mid-Victorian  whiskers  all 
cleansed  and  combed,  would  present  himself 
at  his  post  of  duty.  He  would  linger  in  the 
background,  an  unobtrusive  bystander,  until 
the  condemned  sinner  had  gone  through  the 
mockery  of  eating  his  last  breakfast;  and,  still 
making  himself  inconspicuous  during  the  march 
to  the  gallows,  would  trail  at  the  very  tail  of 
the  line,  while  the  short,  straggling  procession 
was  winding  out  through  gas-lit  murky  hall 
ways  into  the  pale  dawn-light  slanting  over 
the  walls  of  the  gravel-paved,  high-fenced 
compound  built  against  the  outer  side  of  the 
prison  close.  He  would  wait  on,  always  hold 
ing  himself  discreetly  aloof  from  the  middle 
breadth  of  the  picture,  until  the  officiating 
clergyman  had  done  with  his  sacred  offices; 
would  wait  until  the  white-faced  wretch  on 
whose  account  the  government  was  making 
all  this  pother  and  taking  all  this  trouble,  had 
mumbled  his  farewell  words  this  side  of  eternity ; 
would  continue  to  wait,  very  patiently,  indeed, 
until  the  warden  nodded  to  him.  Then,  with 
his  trussing  harness  tucked  under  his  arm,  and 
the  black  cap  neatly  folded  and  bestowed  in  a 
handy  side-pocket  of  his  coat,  Uncle  Tobe  would 
advance  forward,  and  laying  a  kindly,  almost  a 
paternal  hand  upon  the  shoulder  of  the  man 
who  must  die,  would  steer  him  to  a  certain 
spot  in  the  centre  of  the  platform,  just  beneath 
[28] 


THE      GALLOW SMITH 


a  heavy  cross-beam.  There  would  follow  a 
quick  shifting  of  the  big,  gnarled  hands  over 
the  unresisting  body  of  the  doomed  man,  and 
almost  instantly,  so  it  seemed  to  those  who 
watched,  all  was  in  order:  the  arms  of  the 
murderer  drawn  rearward  and  pressed  in  close 
against  his  ribs  by  a  broad  girth  encircling  his 
trunk  at  the  elbows,  his  wrists  caught  together 
in  buckled  leather  cuffs  behind  his  back;  his 
knees  and  his  ankles  fast  in  leathern  loops 
which  joined  to  the  rest  of  the  apparatus  by 
means  of  a  transverse  strap  drawn  tautly 
down  the  length  of  his  legs,  at  the  back;  the 
black-cloth  head-bag  with  its  peaked  crown  in 
place;  the  noose  fitted;  the  hobbled  and  hooded 
shape  perhaps  swaying  a  trifle  this  way  and 
that;  and  Uncle  Tobe  on  his  tiptoes  stepping 
swiftly  over  to  a  tilted  wooden  lever  which  pro 
jected  out  and  upward  through  the  planked 
floor,  like  the  handle  of  a  steering  oar. 

It  was  at  this  point  that  the  timorous-hearted 
among  the  witnesses  turned  their  heads  away. 
Those  who  were  more  resolute — or  as  the  case 
might  be,  more  morbid — and  who  continued 
to  look,  were  made  aware  of  a  freak  of  physics 
which  in  accord,  I  suppose,  with  the  laws  of 
horizontals  and  parallels  decrees  that  a  man 
cut  off  short  from  life  by  quick  and  violent 
means  and  fallen  prone  upon  the  earth,  seems  to 
shrink  up  within  himself  and  to  grow  shorter 
in  body  and  in  sprawling  limb,  whereas  one 

hanged  with  a  rope  by  the  neck  has  the  sem- 

_____ 


FROM      PLACE     TO      PLACE 

blance  of  stretching  out  to  unseemly  and  un- 
human  lengths  all  the  while  that  he  dangles. 

Having  repossessed  himself  of  his  leather 
cinches,  Uncle  Tobe  would  presently  depart  for 
his  home,  stopping  en  route  at  the  Chickaloosa 
National  Bank  to  deposit  the  greater  part  of 
the  seventy-five  dollars  which  the  warden,  as 
representative  of  a  satisfied  Federal  govern 
ment,  had  paid  him,  cash  down  on  the  spot. 
To  his  credit  in  the  bank  the  old  man  had  a 
considerable  sum,  all  earned  after  this  mode, 
and  all  drawing  interest  at  the  legal  rate.  On 
his  arrival  at  his  home,  Mr.  Dramm  would 
first  of  all  have  his  breakfast.  This  over,  he 
would  open  the  second  drawer  of  an  old  black- 
walnut  bureau,  and  from  under  a  carefully 
folded  pile  of  spare  undergarments  would  with 
draw  a  small,  cheap  book,  bound  in  imitation 
red  leather,  and  bearing  the  word  "Accounts" 
in  faded  script  upon  the  cover.  On  a  clean, 
blue-lined  page  of  the  book,  in  a  cramped 
handwriting,  he  would  write  in  ink,  the  name, 
age,  height,  an'd  weight  of  the  man  he  had  just 
despatched  out  of  life;  also  the  hour  and  min 
ute  when  the  drop  fell,  the  time  elapsing  before 
the  surgeons  pronounced  the  man  dead;  the 
disposition  which  had  been  made  of  the  body, 
and  any  other  data  which  seemed  to  him  per 
tinent  to  the  record.  Invariably  he  concluded 
the  entry  thus:  "Neck  was  broke  by  the  fall. 
Everything  passed  off  smooth."  From  his 

'  ' 


THE    GALLOWS  JVTITH 


first  time  of  service  he  had  never  failed  to 
make  such  notations  following  a  hanging,  he 
being  in  this,  as  in  all  things,  methodical 
and  exact. 

The  rest  of  the  day,  in  all  probabilities,  would 
be  given  to  small  devices  of  his  own.  If  the 
season  suited  he  might  work  in  his  little  truck 
garden  at  the  back  of  the  house,  or  if  it  were 
the  fall  of  the  year  he  might  go  rabbit  hunting; 
then  again  he  might  go  for  a  walk.  When  the 
evening  paper  came — Chickaloosa  had  two 
papers,  a  morning  paper  and  an  evening  paper — 
he  would  read  through  the  account  given  of 
the  event  at  the  prison,  and  would  pencil  any 
material  errors  which  had  crept  into  the 
reporter's  story,  and  then  he  would  clip  out 
the  article  and  file  it  away  with  a  sheaf  of 
similar  clippings  in  the  same  bureau  drawer 
where  he  kept  his  account-book  and  his  under 
clothing.  This  done  he  would  eat  his  supper, 
afterward  washing  and  wiping  the  supper 
dishes  and,  presently  bedtime  for  him  having 
arrived,  he  would  go  to  bed  and  sleep  very 
soundly  and  very  peacefully  all  night.  Some 
times  his  heart  trouble  brought  on  smothering 
spells  which  woke  him  up.  He  rarely  had 
dreams,  and  never  any  dreams  unpleasantly 
associated  with  his  avocation.  Probably  never 
was  there  a  man  blessed  with  less  of  an  imagina 
tion  than  this  same  Tobias  Dramm.  It  seemed 
almost  providential,  considering  the  calling  he 

followed,  that  he  altogether  lacked  the  faculty 
__ 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

of  introspection,  so  that  neither  his  memory  nor 
his  conscience  ever  troubled  him. 

Thus  far  I  have  made  no  mention  of  his 
household,  and  for  the  very  good  reason  that 
he  had  none.  In  his  youth  he  had  not  married. 
The  forked  tongue  of  town  slander  had  it  that 
he  was  too  stingy  to  support  a  wife,  and  on  top 
of  that  expense,  to  run  the  risk  of  having 
children  to  rear.  He  had  no  close  kindred 
excepting  a  distant  cousin  or  two  in  Chickaloosa. 
He  kept  no  servant,  and  for  this  there  was  a 
double  cause.  First,  his  parsimonious  in 
stincts;  second,  the  fact  that  for  love  or  money 
no  negro  would  minister  to  him,  and  in  this 
community  negroes  were  the  only  household 
servants  to  be  had.  Among  the  darkies  there 
was  current  a  belief  that  at  dead  of  night  he 
dug  up  the  bodies  of  those  he  had  hanged  and 
peddled  the  cadavers  to  the  "student  doctors." 
They  said  he  was  in  active  partnership  with 
the  devil;  they  said  the  devil  took  over  the 
souls  of  his  victims,  paying  therefor  in  red-hot 
dollars,  after  the  hangman  was  done  with 
their  bodies.  The  belief  of  the  negroes  that 
this  unholy  traffic  existed  amounted  with  them 
to  a  profound  conviction.  They  held  Mr. 
Dramm  in  an  awesome  and  horrified  veneration, 
bowing  to  him  most  respectfully  when  they 
met  him,  and  then  sidling  off  hurriedly.  It 
would  have  taken  strong  horses  to  drag  any 
black-skinned  resident  of  Chickaloosa  to  the 
portals  of  the  little  three-roomed  frame  cottage 


THE      GALLOWS MITH 

in  the  outskirts  of  the  town  which  Uncle  Tobe 
tenanted.  Therefore  he  lived  by  himself,  doing 
his  own  skimpy  marketing  and  his  own  simple 
housekeeping.  Loneliness  was  a  part  of  the 
penalty  he  paid  for  following  the  calling  of  a 
gallowsmith. 

Among  members  of  his  own  race  he  had  no 
close  friends.  For  the  most  part  the  white 
people  did  not  exactly  shun  him,  but,  as  the 
saying  goes  in  the  Southwest,  they  let  him  be. 
They  were  well  content  to  enshrine  him  as  a 
local  celebrity,  and  ready  enough  to  point  him 
out  to  visitors,  but  by  an  unwritten  communal 
law  the  line  was  drawn  there.  He  was  as  one 
set  apart  for  certain  necessary  undertakings, 
and  yet  denied  the  intimacy  of  his  kind  because 
he  performed  them  acceptably.  If  his  aloof 
and  solitary  state  ever  distressed  him,  at  least 
he  gave  no  outward  sign  of  it,  but  went  his 
uncomplaining  way,  bearing  himself  with  a 
homely,  silent  dignity,  and  enveloped  in  those 
invisible  garments  of  superstition  which  local 
prejudice  and  local  ignorance  had  conjured  up. 

Ready  as  he  was  when  occasion  suited,  to 
justify  his  avocation  in  the  terms  of  that  same 
explanation  which  he  had  given  to  the  young 
reporter  from  St.  Louis  that  time,  and  greatly 
though  he  may  have  craved  to  gain  the  good-will 
of  his  fellow  citizens,  he  was  never  known 
openly  to  rebel  against  his  lot.  The  nearest  he 
ever  came  to  doing  this  was  once  when  he  met 
upon  the  street  a  woman  of  his  acquaintance 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

who  had  suffered  a  recent  bereavement  in  the 
death  of  her  only  daughter.  He  approached 
her,  offering  awkward  condolences,  and  at  once 
was  moved  to  a  further  expression  of  his 
sympathy  for  her  in  her  great  loss  by  trying  to 
shake  her  hand.  At  the  touch  of  his  fingers 
to  hers  the  woman,  already  in  a  mood  of  grief 
bordering  on  hysteria,  shrank  back  screaming 
out  that  his  hand  smelled  of  the  soap  with  which 
he  coated  his  gallows-nooses.  She  ran  away 
from  him,  crying  out  as  she  ran,  that  he  was 
accursed;  that  he  was  marked  with  that  awful 
smell  and  could  not  rid  himself  of  it.  To  those 
who  had  witnessed  this  scene  the  hangman, 
with  rather  an  injured  and  bewildered  air,  made 
explanation.  The  poor  woman,  he  said,  was 
wrong;  although  in  a  way  of  speaking  she  was 
right,  too.  He  did,  indeed,  use  the  same  yellow 
bar  soap  for  washing  his  hands  that  he  used 
for  anointing  his  ropes.  It  was  a  good  soap, 
and  cheap;  he  had  used  the  same  brand 
regularly  for  years  in  cleansing  his  hands. 
Since  it  answered  the  first  purpose  so  well,  what 
possible  harm  could  there  be  in  slicking  the 
noose  of  the  rope  with  it  when  he  was  called 
upon  to  conduct  one  of  his  jobs  over  up  at  the 
prison?  Apparently  he  was  at  a  loss  to  fathom 
the  looks  they  cast  at  him  when  he  had  finished 
with  this  statement  and  had  asked  this  question. 
He  began  a  protest,  but  broke  off  quickly  and 
went  away  shaking  his  head  as  though  puzzled 
that  ordinarily  sane  folks  should  be  so  squeamish 

[34] 


THE    GALLOWSMITH 

and  so  unreasonable.     But  he  kept   on  using 
the^soap  as  before. 

Until  now  this  narrative  has  been  largely 
preamble.  The  real  story  follows.  It  concerns 
itself  with  the  birth  of  an  imagination. 

In  his  day  Uncle  Tobe  hanged  all  sorts  and 
conditions  of  men — men  who  kept  on  vainly 
hoping  against  hope  for  an  eleventh-hour 
reprieve  long  after  the  last  chance  of  reprieve 
had  vanished,  and  who  on  the  gallows  begged 
piteously  for  five  minutes,  for  two  minutes,  for 
one  minute  more  of  precious  grace;  negroes  gone 
drunk  on  religious  exhortation  who  died  in  a 
frenzy,  sure  of  salvation,  and  shouting  out 
halleluiahs;  Indians  upborne  and  stayed  by  a 
racial  stoicism;  Chinamen  casting  stolid,  slant- 
eyed  glances  over  the  rim  of  the  void  before 
them  and  filled  with  the  calmness  of  the  fatalist 
who  believes  that  whatever  is  to  be,  is  to  be; 
white  men  upon  whom  at  the  last,  when  all 
prospect  of  intervention  was  gone,  a  mental 
numbness  mercifully  descended  with  the  result 
that  they  came  to  the  rope's  embrace  like  men 
in  a  walking  coma,  with  glazed,  unseeing  eyes, 
and  dragging  feet;  other  white  men  who 
summoned  up  a  mockery  of  bravado  and 
uttered  poor  jests  from  between  lips  drawn  back 
in  defiant  sneering  as  they  gave  themselves  over 
to  the  hangman,  so  that  only  Uncle  Tobe, 
feeling  their  flesh  crawling  under  their  grave- 
clothes  as  he  tied  them  up,  knew  a  hideous 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

terror  berode  their  bodies.  At  length,  in  the 
tenth  year  of  his  career  as  a  paid  executioner  he 
was  called  upon  to  visit  his  professional  atten 
tions  upon  a  man  different  from  any  of  those 
who  had  gone  down  the  same  dread  chute. 

The  man  in  question  was  a  train-bandit 
popularly  known  as  the  Lone-Hand  Kid, 
because  always  he  conducted  his  nefarious 
operations  without  confederates.  He  was  a 
squat,  dark  ruffian,  as  malignant  as  a  moccasin 
snake,  and  as  dangerous  as  one.  He  was  filthy 
in  speech  and  vile  in  habit,  being  in  his  person 
most  unpicturesque  and  most  unwholesome, 
and  altogether  seemed  a  creature  more  viper 
than  he  was  man.  The  sheriffs  of  two  border 
States  and  the  officials  of  a  contiguous  reserva 
tion  sought  for  him  many  times,  long  and 
diligently,  before  a  posse  overcame  him  in  the 
hills  by  over-powering  odds  and  took  him 
alive  at  the  cost  of  two  of  its  members  killed 
outright  and  a  third  badly  crippled.  So  soon 
as  surgeons  plugged  up  the  holes  in  his  hide 
which  members  of  the  vengeful  posse  shot  into 
him  after  they  had  him  surrounded  and  before 
his  ammunition  gave  out,  he  was  brought  to 
bar  to  answer  for  the  unprovoked  murder  of  a 
postal  clerk  on  a  transcontinental  limited.  No 
time  was  wasted  in  hurrying  his  trial  through 
to  its  conclusion;  it  was  felt  that  there  was 
crying  need  to  make  an  example  of  this  red- 
handed  desperado.  Having  been  convicted 
with  commendable  celerity,  the  Lone-Hand  Kid 
[36] 


THE    GALLOWSMITH 


was  transferred  to  Chickaloosa  and  strongly 
confined  there  against  the  day  of  Uncle  Tobe's 
ministrations  upon  him. 

From  the  very  hour  that  the  prosecution  was 
started,  the  Lone-Hand  Kid,  whose  real  name 
was  the  prosaic  name  of  Smith,  objected 
strongly  to  this  procedure  which  in  certain 
circles  is  known  as  "railroading."  He  insisted 
that  he  was  being  legally  expedited  out  of  life 
on  his  record  and  not  on  the  evidence.  There 
were  plenty  of  killings  for  any  one  of  which  he 
might  have  been  tried  and  very  probably  found 
guilty,  but  he  reckoned  it  a  profound  injustice 
that  he  should  be  indicted,  tried,  and  con 
demned  for  a  killing  he  had  not  committed. 
By  his  code  he  would  not  have  rebelled  strongly 
against  being  punished  for  the  evil  things  he 
himself  had  done;  he  did  dislike,  though, 
being  hanged  for  something  some  rival  hold-up 
man  had  done.  Such  was  his  contention,  and 
he  reiterated  it  with  a  persistence  which  went 
far  toward  convincing  some  people  that  after 
all  there  might  be  something  in  what  he  said, 
although  among  honest  men  there  was  no 
doubt  whatsoever  that  the  world  would  be  a 
sweeter  and  a  healthier  place  to  live  in  with 
the  Lone-Hand  Kid  entirely  translated  out 
of  it. 

Having  been  dealt  with,  as  he  viewed  the 

matter,   most  unfairly,   the  condemned  killer 

sullenly   refused   to   make   submission   to   his 

appointed  destiny.     On  the  car  journey  up  to 

[37] 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

Chickaloosa,  although  still  weak  from  his 
wounds  and  securely  ironed  besides,  he  made 
two  separate  efforts  to  assault  his  guards.  In 
his  cell,  a  few  days  later,  he  attacked  a  turnkey 
in  pure  wantonness  seemingly,  since  even  with 
the  turnkey  eliminated,  there  still  was  no 
earthly  prospect  for  him  to  escape  from  the 
steel  strong-box  which  enclosed  him.  That 
was  what  it  truly  was,  too,  a  strong-box,  for 
the  storing  of  many  living  pledges  held  as 
surety  for  the  peace  and  good  order  of  the 
land.  Of  all  these  human  collaterals  who  were 
penned  up  there  with  him,  he,  for  the  time 
being,  was  most  precious  in  the  eyes  of  the 
law.  Therefore  the  law  took  no  chance  of 
losing  him,  and  this  he  must  have  known 
when  he  maimed  his  keeper. 

After  this  outbreak  he  was  treated  as  a 
vicious  wild  beast,  which,  undoubtedly,  was 
exactly  what  he  was.  He  was  chained  by  his 
ankles  to  his  bed,  and  his  food  was  shoved  in 
to  him  through  the  bars  by  a  man  who  kept 
himself  at  all  times  well  out  of  reach  of  the 
tethered  prisoner.  Having  been  rendered  help 
less,  he  swore  then  that  when  finally  they  un 
barred  his  cell  door  and  sought  to  fetch  him 
forth  to  garb  him  for  his  journey  to  the  gallows, 
he  would  fight  them  with  his  teeth  and  his 
bare  hands  for  so  long  as  he  had  left  an  ounce 
of  strength  with  which  to  fight.  Bodily  force 
would  then  be  the  only  argument  remaining 
to  him  by  means  of  which  he  might  express  his 
[38] 


THE      GALLOWS  MITH 


protest,  and  he  told  all  who  cared  to  listen 
that  most  certainly  he  meant  to  invoke  it. 

There  was  a  code  of  decorum  which  governed 
the  hangings  at  Chickaloosa,  and  the  resident 
authorities  dreaded  mightily  the  prospect  of 
having  it  profaned  by  spiteful  and  unmannerly 
behaviour  on  the  part  of  the  Lone-Hand  Kid. 
There  was  said  to  be  in  all  the  world  just  one 
living  creature  for  whom  the  rebellious  captive 
entertained  love  and  respect,  and  this  person 
was  his  half-sister.  With  the  good  name  of 
his  prison  at  heart,  the  warden  put  up  the 
money  that  paid  her  fare  from  her  home  down 
in  the  Indian  Territory.  Two  days  before  the 
execution  she  arrived,  a  slab-sided,  shabby 
drudge  of  a  woman.  Having  first  been  primed 
and  prompted  for  her  part,  she  was  sent  to  him, 
and  in  his  cell  she  wept  over  the  fettered 
prisoner,  and  with  him  she  pleaded  until  he 
promised  her,  reluctantly,  he  would  make  no 
physical  struggle  on  being  led  out  to  die. 

He  kept  his  word,  too;  but  it  was  to  develop 
that  the  pledge  of  non-resistance,  making  his 
body  passive  to  the  will  of  his  jailers,  did  not, 
according  to  the  Lone-Hand  Kid's  sense  of 
honour,  include  the  muscles  of  his  tongue.  His 
hour  came  at  sunup  of  a  clear,  crisp,  October 
morning,  when  a  rime  of  frost  made  a  silver 
carpet  upon  the  boarded  floor  of  the  scaffold, 
and  in  the  east  the  heavens  glowed  an 
irate  red,  like  the  reflections  of  a  distant 
bale-fire.  From  his  cell  door  before  the  head 
~  [157" "" 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

warder  summoned  him  forth,  he  drove  away 
with  terrible  oaths  the  clergyman  who  had  come 
to  offer  him  religious  consolation.  At  day 
light,  when  the  first  beams  of  young  sunlight 
were  stealing  in  at  the  slitted  windows  to 
streak  the  whitewashed  wall  behind  him  with 
a  barred  pattern  of  red,  like  brush  strokes  of 
fresh  paint,  he  ate  his  last  breakfast  with  foul 
words  between  bites,  and  outside,  a  little  later, 
in  the  shadow  of  the  crosstree  from  which 
shortly  he  would  dangle  in  the  article  of  death, 
a  stark  offence  before  the  sight  of  mortal  eyes, 
he  halted  and  stood  reviling  all  who  had  a  hand 
in  furthering  and  compassing  his  condemnation. 
Profaning  the  name  of  his  Maker  with  every 
breath,  he  cursed  the  President  of  the  United 
States  who  had  declined  to  reprieve  him,  the 
justices  of  the  high  court  who  had  denied  his 
appeal  from  the  verdict  of  the  lower,  the  judge 
who  had  tried  him,  the  district  attorney  who 
had  prosecuted  him,  the  grand  jurors  who 
had  indicted  him,  the  petit  jurors  who  had 
voted  to  convict  him,  the  witnesses  who  had 
testified  against  him,  the  posse  men  who  had 
trapped  him,  consigning  them  all  and  singly 
to  everlasting  damnation.  Before  this  pouring 
flood  of  blasphemy  the  minister,  who  had 
followed  him  up  the  gallows  steps  in  the  vain 
hope  that  when  the  end  came  some  faint  sign 
of  contrition  might  be  vouchsafed  by  this  poor 
lost  soul,  hid  his  face  in  his  hands  as  though 
fearing  an  offended  Deity  would  send  a  bolt 
[40] 


THE     GALLOWS  MITH 


from  on  high  to  blast  all  who  had  been  witnesses 
to  such  impiety  and  such  impenitence. 

The  indignant  warden  moved  to  cut  short 
this  lamentable  spectacle.  He  signed  with  his 
hand  for  Uncle  Tobe  to  make  haste,  and  Uncle 
Tobe,  obeying,  stepped  forward  from  where  he 
had  been  waiting  in  the  rear  rank  of  the  shocked 
spectators.  Upon  him  the  defiant  ruffian 
turned  the  forces  of  his  sulfurous  hate,  full- 
gush.  First  over  one  shoulder  and  then  over 
the  other  as  the  executioner  worked  with  swift 
fingers  to  bind  him  into  a  rigid  parcel  of  a 
man,  he  uttered  what  was  both  a  dreadful 
threat  and  a  yet  more  dreadful  promise. 

"I  ain't  blamin'  these  other  folks  here,"  he 
proclaimed.  '  "Some  of  'em  are  here  because 
it's  their  duty  to  be  here,  an*  ef  these  others 
kin  git  pleasure  out  of  seein'  a  man  croaked 
that  ain't  afeared  of  bein'  croaked,  they're 
welcome  to  enjoy  the  free  show,  so  fur  ez  I'm 
concerned.  But  you — you  stingy,  white- 
whiskered  old  snake! — you're  doin'  this  fur 
the  little  piece  of  dirty  money  that's  in  it  fur 
you. 

"Listen  to  me,  you  dog:  I  know  I'm  headin' 
straight  fur  hell,  an'  I  ain't  skeered  to  go, 
neither.  But  I  ain't  goin'  to  stay  there.  I'm 
comin'  back  fur  you!  I'm  comin'  back  this 
very  night  to  git  you  an'  take  your  old,  withered, 
black  soul  back  down  to  hell  with  me.  No 
need  fur  you  to  try  to  hide.  Wharever  you 
hide  I'll  seek  you  out.  You  can't  git  away 

__      ._ 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

frum  me.  You  kin  lock  your  door  an'  you  kin 
lock  your  winder,  an*  you  kin  hide  your  head 
under  the  bedclothes,  but  I'll  find  you  whar- 
ever  you  are,  remember  that!  An'  you're  goin' 
back  down  there  with  me! 

"Now  go  ahead  an'  hang  me — I'm  all  set  fur 
it  ef  you  are!" 

Through  this  harangue  Uncle  Tobe  worked 
on,  outwardly  composed.  Whatever  his  inner 
most  emotions  may  have  been,  his  expression 
gave  no  hint  that  the  mouthings  of  the  Lone- 
Hand  Kid  had  sunk  in.  He  drew  the  peaked 
black  sack  down  across  the  swollen  face,  hiding 
the  glaring  eyes  and  the  lips  that  snarled.  He 
brought  the  rope  forward  over  the  cloaked  head 
and  drew  the  noose  in  tautly,  with  the  knot 
adjusted  to  fit  snugly  just  under  the  left  ear, 
so  that  the  hood  took  on  the  semblance  of  a 
well-filled,  inverted  bag  with  its  puckered  end 
fluting  out  in  the  effect  of  a  dark  ruff  upon  the 
hunched  shoulders  of  its  wearer.  Stepping  back, 
he  gripped  the  handle  of  the  lever-bar,  and 
with  all  his  strength  jerked  it  toward  him.  A 
square  in  the  floor  opened  as  the  trap  was 
flapped  back  upon  its  hinges,  and  through  the 
opening  the  haltered  form  shot  straight  down 
ward  to  bring  up  with  a  great  jerk,  and  after 
that  to  dangle  like  a  plumb-bob  on  a  string. 
Under  the  quick  strain  the  gallows-arm  creaked 
and  whined;  in  the  silence  which  followed  the 
hangman  was  heard  to  exhale  his  breath  in  a 
vast  puff  of  relief.  His  hand  went  up  to  his 


THE    GALLOWSMITH 

forehead  to  wipe  beads  of  sweat  which  for  all 
that  the  morning  was  cool  almost  to  coldness, 
had  suddenly  popped  out  through  his  skin. 
He  for  one  was  mighty  glad  the  thing  was  done, 
and,  as  he  in  this  moment  figured,  well  done. 

But  for  once  and  once  only  as  those  saw  who 
had  the  hardihood  to  look,  Uncle  Tobe  had 
botched  up  a  job.  Perhaps  it  was  because  of 
his  great  haste  to  make  an  end  of  a  scandalous 
scene;  perhaps  because  the  tirade  of  the  bound 
malefactor  had  discomfited  him  and  made  his 
fingers  fumble  this  one  time  at  their  familiar 
task.  Whatever  the  cause,  it  was  plainly 
enough  to  be  seen  that  the  heavy  knot  had  not 
cracked  the  Lone-Hand  Kid's  spine.  The 
noose,  as  was  ascertained  later,  had  caught  on 
the  edge  of  the  broad  jawbone,  and  the  man, 
instead  of  dying  instantly,  was  strangling  to 
death  by  degrees  and  with  much  struggling. 

In  the  next  half  minute  a  thing  even  more 
grievous  befell.  The  broad  strap  which  girthed 
the  murderer's  trunk  just  above  the  bend  of 
the  elbows,  held  fast,  but  the  rest  of  the  harness, 
having  been  improperly  snaffled  on,  loosened  and 
fell  away  from  the  twitching  limbs  so  that  as 
the  elongated  body  twisted  to  and  fro  in  half 
circles,  the  lower  arms  winnowed  the  air  in 
foreshortened  and  contorted  flappings,  and 
the  freed  legs  drew  up  and  down  convulsively. 

Very  naturally,  Uncle  Tobe  was  chagrined; 
perhaps  he  had  hidden  within  him  emotions 
deeper  than  those  bred  of  a  personal  mortifica- 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

tion.  At  any  rate,  after  a  quick,  distressed 
glance  through  the  trap  at  the  writhing  shape 
of  agony  below,  he  turned  his  eyes  from  it 
and  looked  steadfastly  at  the  high  wall  facing 
him.  It  chanced  to  be  the  western  wall,  which 
was  bathed  in  a  ruddy  glare  where  the  shafts 
of  the  upcoming  sun,  lifting  over  the  panels  at 
the  opposite  side  of  the  fenced  enclosure,  began 
to  fall  diagonally  upon  the  whitewashed  sur 
face  just  across.  And  now,  against  that  glow 
ing  plane  of  background  opposite  him,  there 
appeared  as  he  looked  the  slanted  shadow  of  a 
swaying  rope  framed  in  at  right  and  at  left  by 
two  broader,  deeper  lines  which  were  the 
shadows  marking  the  timber  uprights  that 
supported  the  scaffold  at  its  nearer  corners; 
and  also  there  appeared,  midway  between  the 
framing  shadows,  down  at  the  lower  end  of  the 
slender  line  of  the  cord,  an  exaggerated,  wrig 
gling  manifestation  like  the  reflection  of  a  huge 
and  misshapen  jumping- jack,  which  first  would 
lengthen  itself  grotesquely,  and  then  abruptly 
would  shorten  up,  as  the  tremors  running 
through  the  dying  man's  frame  altered  the  sil 
houette  cast  by  the  oblique  sunbeams;  and 
along  with  this  stencilled  vision,  as  a  part  of 
it,  occurred  shifting  shadow  movements  of  two 
legs  dancing  busily  on  nothing,  and  of  two  fore 
shortened  arms,  flapping  up  and  down.  It  was 
no  pretty  picture  to  look  upon,  yet  Uncle  Tobe, 
plucking  with  a  tremulous  hand  at  the  ends 
of  his  beard,  continued  to  stare  at  the  appari- 
[44] " 


THE    GALLOWSMITH 

tion,  daunted  and  fascinated.  To  him  it  must 
have  seemed  as  though  the  Lone-Hand  Kid, 
with  a  malignant  pertinacity  which  lingered  on 
in  him  after  by  rights  the  last  breath  should 
have  been  squeezed  out  of  his  wretched  carcass, 
was  painting  upon  those  tall  planks  the  picture 
and  the  presentiment  of  his  farewell  threat. 

Nearly  half  an  hour  passed  before  the  sur 
geons  consented  that  the  body  should  be  taken 
down  and  boxed.  His  harness  which  had 
failed  him  having  been  returned  to  its  owner, 
he  made  it  up  into  a  compact  bundle  and  col 
lected  his  regular  fee  and  went  away  very 
quietly.  Ordinarily,  following  his  habitual  rou 
tine,  he  would  have  gone  across  town  to  his 
little  house;  would  have  washed  his  hands  with 
a  bar  of  the  yellow  laundry  soap;  would  have 
cooked  and  eaten  his  breakfast,  and  then, 
after  tidying  up  the  kitchen,  would  have  made 
the  customary  entry  in  his  red-backed  account- 
book.  But  this  morning  he  seemed  to  have 
no  appetite,  and  besides,  he  felt  an  unaccount 
able  distaste  for  his  home,  with  its  silence  and 
its  emptiness.  Somehow  he  much  preferred 
the  open  air,  with  the  skies  over  him  and  wide 
reaches  of  space  about  him;  which  was  doubly 
strange,  seeing  that  he  was  no  lover  of  nature, 
but  always  theretofore  had  accepted  sky  and 
grass  and  trees  as  matters  of  course — things  as 
inevitable  and  commonplace  as  the  weathers 
and  the  winds. 

[*«] 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

Throughout  the  day  and  until  well  on  toward 
night  he  was  beset  by  a  curious,  uncommon 
restlessness  which  made  it  hard  for  him  to 
linger  long  in  any  one  spot.  He  idled  about 
the  streets  of  the  town;  twice  he  wandered 
aimlessly  miles  out  along  roads  beyond  the 
town.  All  the  while,  without  cessation,  there 
was  a  tugging  and  nagging  at  his  nerve-ends,  a 
constant  inward  irritation  which  laid  a  hold 
on  his  thoughts,  twitching  them  off  into  un 
pleasant  channels.  It  kept  him  from  centring 
his  interest  upon  the  casual  things  about  him; 
inevitably  it  turned  his  mind  back  to  inner 
contemplations.  The  sensation  was  mental 
largely,  but  it  seemed  so  nearly  akin  to  the 
physical  that  to  himself  Uncle  Tobe  diagnosed 
it  as  the  after-result  of  a  wrench  for  his  weak 
heart.  You  see,  never  before  having  ex 
perienced  the  reactions  of  a  suddenly  quickened 
imagination,  he,  naturally,  was  at  a  loss  to 
account  for  it  on  any  other  ground. 

Also  he  was  weighted  down  by  an  intense 
depression  that  his  clean  record  of  ten  years 
should  have  been  marred  by  a  mishap;  this 
regret,  constantly  recurring  in  his  thoughts, 
served  to  make  him  unduly  sensitive.  He  had 
a  feeling  that  people  stared  hard  at  him  as 
they  passed  and,  after  he  had  gone  by,  that 
they  turned  to  stare  at  him  some  more.  Under 
this  scrutiny  he  gave  no  sign  of  displeasure, 
but  inwardly  he  resented  it.  Of  course  these 
folks  had  heard  of  what  had  happened  up  at 


THE     GALLOWS MITH 


the  prison,  and  no  doubt  among  themselves 
would  be  commenting  upon  the  tragedy  and 
gossiping  about  it.  Well,  any  man  was  liable 
to  make  a  slip  once;  nobody  was  perfect.  It 
would  never  happen  again;  he  was  sure  of  that 
much. 

All  day  he  mooned  about,  a  brooding,  uneasy 
figure,  speaking  to  scarcely  any  one  at  all,  but 
followed  wherever  he  went  by  curious  eyes. 
It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  before  it  occurred 
to  him  that  he  had  eaten  nothing  all  day,  and 
that  he  had  failed  to  deposit  the  money  he  had 
earned  that  morning.  It  would  be  too  late 
now  to  get  into  the  bank;  the  bank,  which 
opened  early,  closed  at  three  o'clock.  To 
morrow  would  do  as  well.  Although  he  had  no 
zest  for  food  despite  his  fast,  he  figured  maybe 
it  was  the  long  abstinence  which  was  filling  his 
head  with  such  flighty  notions,  so  he  entered  a 
small,  smelly  lunch-room  near  the  railroad 
station,  and  made  a  pretense  of  eating  an  order 
of  ham  and  eggs.  He  tried  not  to  notice  that 
the  black  waiter  who  served  him  shrank  away 
from  his  proximity,  shying  off  like  a  breechy 
colt,  from  the  table  where  Uncle  Tobe  sat, 
whenever  his  business  brought  him  into  that 
part  of  the  place.  What  difference  did  a  fool 
darky's  fears  make,  anyway? 

Dusk  impended  when  he  found  himself 
approaching  his  three-room  house,  looming  up 
as  a  black  oblong,  where  it  stood  aloof  from  its 

neighbours,  with  vacant  lands  about  it.     The 
_  _ 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

house  faced  north  and  south.  On  the  nearer 
edge  of  the  unfenced  common,  which  extended 
up  to  it  on  the  eastern  side,  he  noted  as  he  drew 
close  that  somebody — perhaps  a  boy,  or  more 
probably  a  group  of  boys — had  made  a  bonfire 
of  fallen  autumn  leaves  and  brushwood.  Going 
away  as  evening  came,  they  had  left  their 
bonfire  to  burn  itself  out.  The  smouldering 
pile  was  almost  under  his  bedroom  window. 
He  regretted  rather  that  the  boys  had  gone; 
an  urgent  longing  for  human  companionship 
of  some  sort,  however  remote — a  yearning  he 
had  never  before  felt  with  such  acuteness — 
was  upon  him.  Tormented,  as  he  still  was,  by 
strange  vagaries,  he  had  almost  to  force  him 
self  to  unlock  the  front  door  and  cross  the 
threshold  into  the  gloomy  interior  of  his  cot 
tage.  But  before  entering,  and  while  he  yet 
wrestled  with  a  vague  desire  to  retrace  his 
steps  and  go  back  down  the  street,  he  stooped 
and  picked  up  his  copy  of  the  afternoon  paper 
which  the  carrier,  with  true  carrierlike  accuracy, 
had  flung  upon  the  narrow  front  porch. 

Inside  the  house,  the  floor  gave  off  sharp 
little  sounds,  the  warped  floor  squeaking  and 
wheezing  under  the  weight  of  his  tread.  Sub 
consciously,  this  irritated  him;  a  lot  of  causes 
were  combining  to  harass  him,  it  seemed;  there 
was  a  general  conspiracy  on  the  part  of  objects 
animate  and  inanimate  to  make  him — well, 
suspicious.  And  Uncle  Tobe  was  not  given  to 
nervousness,  which  made  it  worse.  He  was 
[48]  


THE     GALLOWS  MITH 

ashamed  of  himself  that  he  should  be  in  such 
state.  Glancing  about  him  in  a  furtive,  al 
most  in  an  apprehensive  way,  he  crossed  the 
front  room  to  the  middle  room,  which  was  his 
bed  chamber,  the  kitchen  being  the  room  at 
the  rear.  In  the  middle  room  he  lit  a  coal-oil 
lamp  which  stood  upon  a  small  centre  table. 
Alongside  the  table  he  opened  out  the  paper 
and  glanced  at  a  caption  running  half-way 
across  the  top  of  the  front  page;  then,  fretfully 
he  crumpled  up  the  printed  sheet  in  his  hand 
and  let  it  fall  upon  the  floor.  He  had  no  desire 
to  read  the  account  of  his  one  failure.  Why 
should  the  editor  dwell  at  such  length  and  with 
so  prodigal  a  display  of  black  head-line  type 
upon  this  one  bungled  job  when  every  other  job 
of  all  the  jobs  that  had  gone  before,  had  been 
successful  in  every  detail?  Let's  see,  now,  how 
many  men  had  he  hanged  with  precision  and 
with  speed  and  with  never  an  accident  to  mar 
the  proceedings?  A  long,  martialed  array  of 
names  came  trooping  into  his  brain,  and  along 
with  the  names  the  memories  of  the  faces  of  all 
those  dead  men  to  whom  the  names  had 
belonged.  The  faces  began  to  pass  before  him 
in  a  mental  procession.  This  wouldn't  do. 
Since  there  were  no  such  things  as  ghosts  or 
haunts;  since,  as  all  sensible  men  agreed,  the 
dead  never  came  back  from  the  grave,  it  was  a 
foolish  thing  for  him  to  be  creating  those  un 
pleasant  images  in  his  mind.  He  shook  his 
head  to  clear  it  of  recollections  which  were  the 
-  ~-  ~  '  [49]  


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

better    forgotten.      He    shook    it    again    and 
again. 

He  would  get  to  bed;  a  good  night's  rest 
would  make  him  feel  better  and  more  natural. 
It  was  an  excellent  idea — this  idea  of  sleep. 
So  he  raised  the  bottommost  half  of  the  curtain- 
less  side  window  for  air,  drew  down  the  shade 
by  the  string  suspended  from  its  lower  cross 
breadth,  until  the  lower  edge  of  the  shade 
came  even  with  the  window  sash,  and  un 
dressed  himself  to  his  undergarments.  He  was 
about  to  blow  out  the  light  when  he  remem 
bered  he  had  left  the  money  that  was  the  price 
of  his  morning's  work  in  his  trousers  which 
hung,  neatly  folded,  across  the  back  of  a  chair 
by  the  centre  table.  He  was  in  the  act  of 
withdrawing  the  bills  from  the  bottom  of  one 
of  the  trouser-pockets  when  right  at  his  feet 
there  was  a  quick,  queer  sound  of  rustling. 
As  he  glared  down,  startled,  out  from  under 
the  crumpled  newspaper  came  timorously  creep 
ing  a  half-grown,  sickly  looking  rat,  minus  its 
tail,  having  lost  its  tail  in  a  trap,  perhaps,  or 
possibly  in  a  battle  with  other  rats. 

At  best  a  rat  is  no  pleasant  bedroom  com 
panion,  and  besides,  Uncle  Tobe  had  been 
seriously  annoyed.  He  kicked  out  with  one 
of  his  bare  feet,  taking  the  rat  squarely  in  its 
side  as  it  scurried  for  its  hole  in  the  wainscoting. 
He  hurt  it  badly.  It  landed  with  a  thump 
ten  feet  away  and  sprawled  out  on  the  floor 
kicking  and  squealing  feebly.  Holding  the 
[  50  ] 


THE    GALLOWSMITH 


wad  of  bills  in  his  left  hand,  with  his  right 
Uncle  Tobe  deftly  plucked  up  the  crushed 
vermin  by  the  loose  fold  of  skin  at  the  nape 
of  its  neck,  and  with  a  quick  flirt  of  his  arm 
tossed  it  sidewise  from  him  to  cast  it  out  of 
the  half-opened  window.  He  returned  to  the 
table  and  bent  over  and  blew  down  the  lamp 
chimney,  and  in  the  darkness  felt  his  way 
across  the  room  to  his  bed.  He  stretched 
himself  full  length  upon  it,  drew  the  cotton 
comforter  up  to  cover  him,  and  shoved  the 
money  under  the  pillow. 

His  fingers  were  relaxing  their  grip  on  the 
bills  when  he  saw  something — something  which 
instantly  turned  him  stiff  and  rigid  and  deathly 
cold  all  over,  leaving  him  without  will-power 
or  strength  to  move  his  head  or  shift  his  gaze. 
Over  the  white,  plastered  wall  alongside  his 
bed  an  unearthly  red  glow  sprang  up,  turning 
a  deeper,  angrier  red  as  it  spread  and  widened. 
Against  this  background  next  stood  out  two 
perpendicular  masses  like  the  broad  shadows 
of  uprights — like  the  supporting  uprights  of  a 
gallows,  say — and  in  the  squared  space  of 
brightness  thus  marked  off,  depending  midway 
from  the  shadow  crossing  it  at  right  angles  at 
the  top,  appeared  a  filmy,  fine  line,  which 
undoubtedly  was  the  shadow  of  a  cord,  and  at 
the  end  of  the  cord  dangled  a  veritable  jumping- 
jack  of  a  silhouette,  turning  and  writhing  and 
jerking,  with  a  shape  which  in  one  breath 
grotesquely  lengthened  and  in  the  next  shrank 

_____ 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

up  to  half  its  former  dimensions,  which  kicked 
out  with  indistinct  movements  of  its  lower 
extremities,  which  flapped  with  foreshortened 
strokes  of  the  shadowy  upper  limbs,  which 
altogether  so  contorted  itself  as  to  form  the 
likeness  of  a  thing  all  out  of  perspective,  all 
out  of  proportion,  and  all  most  horribly  remi 
niscent. 

A  heart  with  valves  already  weakened  by  a 
chronic  affection  can  stand  just  so  many  shocks 
in  a  given  time  and  no  more. 

A  short  time  later  in  this  same  night,  at  about 
eight-forty-five  o'clock,  to  be  exact,  a  man  who 
lived  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  unfenced  com 
mon  gave  the  alarm  of  fire  over  the  telephone. 
The  Chickaloosa  fire  engine  and  hose  reels  came 
at  once,  and  with  the  machines  numerous 
citizens. 

In  a  way  of  speaking,  it  turned  out  to  be  a 
false  alarm.  A  bonfire  of  leaves  and  brush, 
abandoned  at  dusk  by  the  boys  who  kindled  it, 
had,  after  smouldering  a  while,  sprung  up  briskly 
and,  flaming  high,  was  now  scorching  the  clap- 
boarded  side  of  the  Dramm  house. 

There  was  no  need  for  the  firemen  to  un 
couple  a  line  of  hose  from  the  reel.  While  two 
of  them  made  shift  to  get  retorts  of  a  patent 
extinguisher  from  the  truck,  two  more,  won 
dering  why  Uncle  Tobe,  even  if  in  bed  and 
asleep  at  so  early  an  hour,  had  not  been  aroused 


THE     GALLOWS  MITH 


by  the  noise  of  the  crowd's  coming,  knocked 
at  his  front  door.  There  being  nojresponse 
from  within  at  once,  they  suspected  something 
must  be  amiss.  With  heaves  of  their  shoulders 
they  forced  the  door  off  its  hinges,  and  entering 
in  company,  they  groped  their  passage  through 
the  empty  front  room  into  the  bedroom  behind 
it,  which  was  lighted  after  a  fashion  by  the 
reflection  from  the  mounting  flames  without. 

The  tenant  was  in  bed;  he  lay  on  his  side  with 
his  face  turned  to  the  wall;  he  made  no  answer 
to  their  hails.  When  they  bent  over  him  they 
knew  why.  No  need  to  touch  him,  then,  with 
that  look  on  his  face  and  that  stare  out  of  his 
popped  eyes.  He  was  dead,  all  right  enough; 
but  plainly  had  not  been  dead  long;  not  more 
than  a  few  minutes,  apparently.  One  of  his 
hands  was  shoved  up  under  his  pillow  with  the 
fingers  touching  a  small  roll  containing  seven 
ten-dollar  bills  and  one  five-dollar  bill;  the 
other  hand  still  gripped  a  fold  of  the  coverlet  as 
though  the  fatal  stroke  had  come  upon  the  old 
man  as  he  lifted  the  bedclothing  to  draw  it  up 
over  his  face.  These  incidental  facts  were 
noted  down  later  after  the  coroner  had  been 
called  to  take  charge;  they  were  the  subject  of 
considerable  comment  next  day  when  the 
inquest  took  place.  The  coroner  was  of  the 
opinion  that  the  old  man  had  been  killed  by  a 
heart  seizure,  and  that  he  had  died  on  the 
instant  the  attack  came. 

However,  this  speculation  had  no  part  in  the 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

thoughts  of  the  two  startled  firemen  at  the 
moment  of  the  finding  of  the  body.  What 
most  interested  them,  next  only  to  the  dis 
covery  of  the  presence  of  the  dead  man  there 
in  the  same  room  with  them,  was  a  queer  com 
bination  of  shadows  which  played  up  and  down 
against  the  wall  beyond  the  bed,  it  being 
plainly  visible  in  the  glare  of  the  small  con 
flagration  just  outside. 

With  one  accord  they  turned  about,  and 
then  they  saw  the  cause  of  the  phenomenon, 
and  realised  that  it  was  not  very  much  of  a 
phenomenon  after  all,  although  unusual  enough 
to  constitute  a  rather  curious  circumstance. 
A  crippled,  tailless  rat  had  somehow  entangled 
its  neck  in  a  loop  at  the  end  of  the  dangling 
cord  of  the  half -drawn  shade  at  the  side  window 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room  and,  being  too 
weak  to  wriggle  free,  was  still  hanging  there, 
jerking  and  kicking,  midway  of  the  window 
opening.  The  glow  of  the  pile  of  burning 
leaves  and  brush  behind  and  beyond  it,  brought 
out  its  black  outlines  with  remarkable  clearness. 

The  patterned  shadow  upon  the  wall,  though, 
disappeared  in  the  same  instant  that  the  men 
outside  began  spraying  their  chemical  com 
pound  from  the  two  extinguishers  upon  the 
ambitious  bonfire  to  douse  it  out,  and  one  of 
the  firemen  slapped  the  rat  down  to  the  floor 
and  killed  it  with  a  stamp  of  his  foot. 


[54] 


CHAPTER  II 
THE  THUNDERS  OF  SILENCE* 


SOME  people  said  Congressman  Mallard 
had  gone  mad.  These  were  his  friends 
striving  out  of  the  goodness  of  their 
hearts  to  put  the  best  face  on  what  at 
best  was  a  lamentable  situation.  Some  said 
he  was  a  traitor  to  his  country.  These  were 
his  enemies,  personal,  political  and  journal 
istic.  Some  called  him  a  patriot  who  put 
humanity  above  nationality,  a  new  John  the 
Baptist  come  out  of  the  wilderness  to  preach 
a  sobering  doctrine  of  world-peace  to  a  world 
made  drunk  on  war.  And  these  were  his  fol 
lowers.  Of  the  first — his  friends — there  were 
not  many  left.  Of  the  second  group  there  were 
millions  that  multiplied  themselves.  Of  the 
third  there  had  been  at  the  outset  but  a  tim 
orous  and  furtive  few,  and  they  mostly  men 
and  women  who  spoke  English,  if  they  spoke  it 
at  all,  with  the  halting  speech  and  the  twisted 
idiom  that  betrayed  their  foreign  birth;  being 
persons  who  found  it  entirely  consistent  to 

*  Originally  printed  separately. 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

applaud  the  preachment  of  planetic  disarma 
ment  out  of  one  side  of  their  mouths,  and  out  of 
the  other  side  of  their  mouths  to  pray  for  the 
success  at  arms  of  the  War  Lord  whose  hand 
had  shoved  the  universe  over  the  rim  of  the 
chasm.  But  each  passing  day  now  saw  them 
increasing  in  number  and  in  audacity.  Tak 
ing  courage  to  themselves  from  the  courage  of 
their  apostle,  these,  his  disciples,  were  be 
ginning  to  shout  from  the  housetops  what 
once  they  had  only  dared  whisper  beneath 
the  eaves.  Disloyalty  no  longer  smouldered; 
it  was  blazing  up.  It  crackled,  and  threw 
off  firebrands. 

Of  all  those  who  sat  in  judgment  upon  the 
acts  and  the  utterances  of  the  man — and  this 
classification  would  include  every  articulate 
creature  in  the  United  States  who  was  old 
enough  to  be  reasonable — or  unreasonable — 
only  a  handful  had  the  right  diagnosis  for  the 
case.  Here  and  there  were  to  be  found  men 
who  knew  he  was  neither  crazed  nor  inspired; 
and  quite  rightly  they  put  no  credence  in  the 
charge  that  he  had  sold  himself  for  pieces  of 
silver  to  the  enemy  of  his  own  nation.  They 
knew  what  ailed  the  Honourable  Jason  Mallard 
— that  he  was  a  victim  of  a  strangulated  am 
bition,  of  an  egotistic  hernia.  He  was  hopelessly 
ruptured  in  his  vanity.  All  his  life  he  had 
lived  on  love  of  notoriety,  and  by  that  same 
perverted  passion  he  was  being  eaten  up. 
Once  he  had  diligently  besought  the  confidence 
[56] 


THE      THUNDERS      OF      SILENCE 

and  the  affections  of  a  majority  of  his  fellow 
citizens ;  now  he  seemed  bent  upon  consolidating 
their  hate  for  him  into  a  common  flood  and 
laving  himself  in  it.  Well,  if  such  was  his  wish 
he  was  having  it;  there  was  no  denying  that. 

In  the  prime  of  his  life,  before  he  was  fifty, 
it  had  seemed  that  almost  for  the  asking  the 
presidency  might  have  been  his.  He  had  been 
born  right,  as  the  saying  goes,  and  bred  right, 
to  make  suitable  presidential  timber.  He 
came  of  fine  clean  blends  of  blood.  His  father 
had  been  a  descendant  of  Norman-English  folk 
who  settled  in  Maryland  before  the  Revolution; 
the  family  name  had  originally  been  Maillard, 
afterward  corrupted  into  Mallard.  His  moth 
er's  people  were  Scotch-Irish  immigrants  of 
the  types  that  carved  out  their  homesteads 
with  axes  on  the  spiny  haunches  of  the  Cum- 
berlands.  In  the  Civil  War  his  father  had 
fought  for  the  Union,  in  a  regiment  of  bor 
derers;  two  of  his  uncles  had  been  partisan 
rangers  on  the  side  of  the  Confederacy.  If 
he  was  a  trifle  young  to  be  of  that  generation 
of  public  men  who  were  born  in  unchinked  log 
cabins  of  the  wilderness  or  prairie-sod  shanties, 
at  least  he  was  to  enjoy  the  subsequent  political 
advantage  of  having  come  into  the  world  in  a 
two-room  house  of  unpainted  pine  slabs  on  the 
sloped  withers  of  a  mountain  in  East  Tennessee. 
As  a  child  he  had  been  taken  by  his  parents  to 
one  of  the  states  which  are  called  pivotal  states. 

There  be  had  grown  up — farm  boy  first,  teacher 

__ 


FROM    PLACE    TO    PLACE 

of  a  district  school,  self-taught  lawyer,  county 
attorney,  state  legislator,  governor,  congress 
man  for  five  terms,  a  floor  leader  of  his  party — 
so  that  by  ancestry  and  environment,  by  the 
ethics  of  political  expediency  and  political 
geography,  by  his  own  record  and  by  the 
traditions  of  the  time,  he  was  formed  to  make 
an  acceptable  presidential  aspirant. 

In  person  he  was  most  admirably  adapted 
for  the  role  of  statesman.  He  had  a  figure 
fit  to  set  off  a  toga,  a  brow  that  might  have 
worn  a  crown  with  dignity.  As  an  orator 
he  had  no  equal  in  Congress  or,  for  that  matter, 
out  of  it.  He  was  a  burning  mountain  of 
eloquence,  a  veritable  human  Vesuvius  from 
whom,  at  will,  flowed  rhetoric  or  invective, 
satire  or  sentiment,  as  lava  might  flow  from 
a  living  volcano.  His  mind  spawned  sonorous 
phrases  as  a  roe  shad  spawns  eggs.  He  was  in 
all  outward  regards  a  shape  of  a  man  to  catch 
the  eye,  with  a  voice  to  cajole  the  senses  as 
with  music  of  bugles,  and  an  oratory  to  inspire. 
Moreover,  the  destiny  which  shaped  his  ends 
had  mercifully  denied  him  that  which  is  a 
boon  to  common  men  but  a  curse  to  public 
men.  Jason  Mallard  was  without  a  sense  of 
humour.  He  never  laughed  at  others;  he 
never  laughed  at  himself.  Certain  of  our 
public  leaders  have  before  now  fallen  into  the 
woful  error  of  doing  one  or  both  of  these  things. 
Wherefore  they  were  forever  after  called  hu 
mourists — and  ruined.  When  they  said  any- 

__     


THE     THUNDERS     OF     SILENCE 

thing  serious  their  friends  took  it  humorously, 
and  when  they  said  anything  humorously  their 
enemies  took  it  seriously.  But  Congressman 
Mallard  was  safe  enough  there. 

Being  what  he  was — a  handsome  bundle  of 
selfishness,  coated  over  with  a  fine  gloss  of 
seeming  humility,  a  creature  whose  every 
instinct  was  richly  mulched  in  self-conceit 
and  yet  one  who  simulated  a  deep  devotion  for 
mankind  at  large — he  couldn't  make  either 
of  these  mistakes. 

Upon  a  time  the  presidential  nomination  of 
his  party — the  dominant  party,  too — had  been 
almost  within  his  grasp.  That  made  his  losing 
it  all  the  more  bitter.  Thereafter  he  became  an 
obstructionist,  a  fighter  outside  of  the  lines  of 
his  own  party  and  not  within  the  lines  of  the 
opposing  party,  a  leader  of  the  elements  of 
national  discontent  and  national  discord,  a 
mouthpiece  for  all  those  who  would  tear  down 
the  pillars  of  the  temple  because  they  dislike 
its  present  tenants.  Once  he  had  courted 
popularity;  presently — this  coming  after  his 
re-election  to  a  sixth  term — he  went  out  of  his 
way  to  win  unpopularity.  His  invectives  ate 
in  like  corrosives,  his  metaphors  bit  like  adders. 
Always  he  had  been  like  a  sponge  to  sop  up 
adulation;  now  he  was  to  prove  that  when  it 
came  to  withstanding  denunciation  his  hide  was 
the  hide  of  a  rhino. 

The  war  came  along,  and  after  more  than 
two  years  of  it  came  our  entry  into  it.  For  the 

__ 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

most  part,  in  the  national  capital  and  out  of 
it,  artificial  lines  of  partisan  division  were  wiped 
out  under  a  tidal  wave  of  patriotism.  So  far 
as  the  generality  of  Americans  were  concerned, 
they  for  the  time  being  were  neither  Demo 
crats  nor  Republicans;  neither  were  they 
Socialists  nor  Independents  nor  Prohibitionists. 
For  the  duration  of  the  war  they  were  Ameri 
cans,  actuated  by  a  common  purpose  and 
stirred  by  a  common  danger.  Afterward  they 
might  be,  politically  speaking,  whatever  they 
chose  to  be,  but  for  the  time  being  they  were 
just  Americans.  Into  this  unique  condition 
Jason  Mallard  projected  himself,  an  upstanding 
reef  of  opposition  to  break  the  fine  continuity 
of  a  mighty  ground  swell  of  national  unity  and 
national  harmony. 

Brilliant,  formidable,  resourceful,  seemingly 
invulnerable,  armoured  in  apparent  disdain 
for  the  contempt  and  the  indignation  of  the 
masses  of  the  citizenship,  he  fought  against 
and  voted  against  the  breaking  off  of  diplo 
matic  relations  with  Germany;  fought  against 
the  draft,  fought  against  the  war  appropria 
tions,  fought  against  the  plans  for  a  bigger 
navy,  the  plans  for  a  great  army;  fought  the 
first  Liberty  Loan  and  the  second;  and  the 
third  he  fought  against  a  declaration  of  war 
with  Austria-Hungary.  And,  so  far  as  the 
members  of  Congress  were  concerned,  he  fought 
practically  single-handed. 

His  vote  cast  in  opposition  to  the  will  of 
[60] 


THE      THUNDERS      OF      SILENCE 

the  majority  meant  nothing;  his  voice  raised 
in  opposition  meant  much.  For  very  soon 
the  avowed  pacifists  and  the  secret  protag 
onists  of  Kultur,  the  blood-eyed  anarchists 
and  the  lily-livered  dissenters,  the  conscien 
tious  objectors  and  the  conscienceless  I.  W. 
W.  group,  saw  in  him  a  buttress  upon  which 
to  stay  their  cause.  The  lone  wolf  wasn't 
a  lone  wolf  any  longer — he  had  a  pack  to 
rally  about  him,  yelping  approval  of  his  every 
word.  Day  by  day  he  grew  stronger  and  day 
by  day  the  sinister  elements  behind  him  grew 
bolder,  echoing  his  challenges  against  the 
Government  and  against  the  war.  With  prac 
tically  every  newspaper  in  America,  big  and 
little,  fighting  him;  with  every  influential 
magazine  fighting  him;  with  the  leaders  of  the 
Administration  fighting  him — he  nevertheless 
loomed  on  the  national  sky  line  as  a  great 
sinister  figure  of  defiance  and  rebellion. 

Deft  word  chandlers  of  the  magazines  and 
the  daily  press  coined  terms  of  opprobrium 
for  him.  He  was  the  King  of  the  Copperheads, 
the  Junior  Benedict  Arnold,  the  Modern  Judas, 
the  Second  Aaron  Burr;  these  things  and  a 
hundred  others  they  called  him;  and  he  laughed 
at  hard  names  and  in  reply  coined  singularly 
apt  and  cruel  synonyms  for  the  more  con 
spicuous  of  his  critics.  The  oldest  active 
editor  in  the  country — and  the  most  famous — 
called  upon  the  body  of  which  he  was  a  member 

to  impeach  him  for  acts  of  disloyalty,  tending 
_ 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

to  give  aid  and  comfort  to  the  common  enemy. 
The  great  president  of  a  great  university  sug 
gested  as  a  proper  remedy  for  what  seemed  to 
ail  this  man  Mallard  that  he  be  shot  against  a 
brick  wall  some  fine  morning  at  sunrise.  At  a 
monstrous  mass  meeting  held  in  the  chief 
city  of  Mallard's  home  state,  a  mass  meeting 
presided  over  by  the  governor  of  that  state, 
resolutions  were  unanimously  adopted  calling 
upon  him  to  resign  his  commission  as  a  repre 
sentative.  His  answer  to  all  three  was  a 
speech  which,  as  translated,  was  shortly  there 
after  printed  in  pamphlet  form  by  the  Berlin 
Lokal  Anzeiger  and  circulated  among  the  Ger 
man  soldiers  at  the  Front. 

For  you  see  Congressman  Mallard  felt 
safe,  and  Congressman  Mallard  was  safe. 
His  defense  was  the  right  of  free  speech;  his 
weapon,  the  argument  that  he  stood  for  peace 
through  all  the  world,  for  arbitration  and  dis 
armament  among  all  the  peoples  of  the  world. 

It  was  on  the  evening  of  a  day  in  January 
of  the  year  of  grace,  1918,  that  young  Dray  ton, 
Washington  correspondent  for  the  New  York 
Epoch,  sat  in  the  office  of  his  bureau  on  the 
second  floor  of  the  Hibbett  Building,  revising 
his  account  of  a  scene  he  had  witnessed  that 
afternoon  from  the  press  gallery  of  the  House. 
He  had  instructions  from  his  managing  editor 
to  cover  the  story  at  length.  At  ten  o'clock 
he  had  finished  what  would  make  two  columns 
in  type  and  was  polishing  off  his  opening  para- 

_•  __          . 


THE     THUNDERS      OF     SILENCE 

graphs  before  putting  the  manuscript  on  the 
wire  when  the  door  of  his  room  opened  and  a 
man  came  in — a  shabby,  tremulous  figure. 
The  comer  was  Quinlan. 

Quinlan  was  forty  years  old  and  looked  fifty. 
Before  whisky  got  him  Quinlan  had  been  a 
great  newspaper  man.  Now  that  his  habits 
made  it  impossible  for  him  to  hold  a  steady 
job  he  was  become  a  sort  of  news  tipster. 
Occasionally  also  he  did  small  lobbying  of  a 
sort;  his  acquaintance  with  public  men  and 
his  intimate  knowledge  of  Washington  official 
dom  served  him  in  both  these  precarious  fields 
of  endeavour.  The  liquor  hedrank — whenever 
and  wherever  he  could  get  it — had  bloated  his 
face  out  of  all  wholesome  contour  and  had 
given  to  his  stomach  a  chronic  distention,  but 
had  depleted  his  frame  and  shrunken  his 
limbs  so  that  physically  he  was  that  common 
enough  type  of  the  hopeless  alcoholic — a  meagre 
rack  of  a  man  burdened  amidships  by  an  un 
healthy  and  dropsical  plumpness. 

At  times  when  he  was  not  completely  sod 
den — when  he  had  in  him  just  enough  whisky 
to  stimulate  his  soaked  brain,  and  yet  not 
enough  of  it  to  make  him  maudlin — he  dis 
played  flashes  of  a  one-time  brilliancy  which 
by  contrast  with  his  usual  state  made  the 
ruinous  thing  he  had  done  to  himself  seem  all 
the  more  pitiable. 

Drayton  of  the  Epoch  was  one  of  the  news- 
paper  men  upon  whom  he  sponged.  Always 

__ 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

preserving  the  fiction  that  he  was  borrowing 
because  of  temporary  necessity,  he  got  small 
sums  of  money  out  of  Drayton  from  time  to 
time,  and  in  exchange  gave  the  younger  man 
bits  of  helpful  information.  It  was  not  so 
much  news  that  he  furnished  Drayton  as  it  was 
insight  into  causes  working  behind  political 
and  diplomatic  events.  He  came  in  now 
without  knocking  and  stood  looking  at  Drayton 
with  an  ingratiating  flicker  in  his  dulled  eyes. 

"Hello,  Quinlan!"  said  Drayton.  "What's 
on  your  mind  to-night?" 

"Nothing,  until  you  get  done  there,"  said 
Quinlan,  letting  himself  lop  down  into  a 
chair  across  the  desk  from  Drayton.  "Go 
ahead  and  get  through.  I've  got  nowhere 
to  come  but  in,  and  nowhere  to  go  but  out." 

"I'm  just  putting  the  final  touches  on  my 
story  of  Congressman  Mallard's  speech,"  said 
Drayton.  "Want  to  read  my  introduction?" 

Privately  Drayton  was  rather  pleased  with 
the  job  and  craved  approval  for  his  craftsman 
ship  from  a  man  who  still  knew  good  writing 
when  he  saw  it,  even  though  he  could  no  longer 
write  it. 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Quinlan.  "All  I 
ever  want  to  read  about  that  man  is  his 
obituary." 

"You  said  it!"  agreed  Drayton.  "It's  what 
most  of  the  decent  people  in  this  country  are 
thinking,  I  guess,  even  if  they  haven't  begun 
saying  it  out  loud  yet.  It  strikes  me  the 


THE     THUNDERS      OF     SI.L'ENCE 

American  people  are  a  mighty  patient  lot — 
putting  up  with  that  demagogue.  That  was  a 
rotten  thing  that  happened  up  on  the  hill  to-day, 
Quinlan — a  damnable  thing.  Here  was  Mal 
lard  making  the  best  speech  in  the  worst  cause 
that  ever  I  heard,  and  getting  away  with  it  too. 
And  there  was  Richland  trying  to  answer  him 
and  in  comparison  making  a  spectacle  of  him 
self — Richland  with  all  the  right  and  all  the 
decency  on  his  side  and  yet  showing  up  like 
a  perfect  dub  alongside  Mallard,  because  he 
hasn't  got  one-tenth  of  Mallard's  ability  as  a 
speaker  or  one-tenth  of  Mallard's  personal  fire 
or  stage  presence  or  magnetism  or  whatever 
it  is  that  makes  Mallard  so  plausible — and  so 
dangerous." 

"That's  all  true  enough,  no  doubt,"  said 
Quinlan;  "and  since  it  is  true  why  don't  the 
newspapers  put  Mallard  out  of  business?" 

"Why  don't  the  newspapers  put  him  out 
of  business!"  echoed  Drayton.  "Why,  good 
Lord,  man,  isn't  that  what  they've  all  been 
trying  to  do  for  the  last  six  months?  They 
call  him  every  name  in  the  calendar,  and  it 
all  rolls  off  him  like  water  off  a  duck's  back. 
He  seems  to  get  nourishment  out  of  abuse 
that  would  kill  any  other  man.  He  thrives 
on  it,  if  I'm  any  judge.  I  believe  a  hiss  is 
music  to  his  ears  and  a  curse  is  a  hushaby, 
lullaby  song.  Put  him  out  of  business?  Why 
say,  doesn't  nearly  every  editorial  writer  in  the 
country  jump  on  him  every  day,  and  don't  all 
~  [65]' 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

the  paragraphers  gibe  at  him,  and  don't  all  the 
cartoonists  lampoon  him,  and  don't  all  of  us 
who  write  news  from  down  here  in  Washington 
give  him  the  worst  of  it  in  our  despatches? 
.  .  .  And  what's  the  result?  Mallard  takes 
on  flesh  and  every  red-mouthed  agitator  in  the 
country  and  every  mushy-brained  peace  fanatic 
and  every  secret  German  sympathiser  trails 
at  his  heels,  repeating  what  he  says.  I'd  like 
to  know  what  the  press  of  America  hasn't  done 
to  put  him  out  of  business! 

"There  never  was  a  time,  I  guess,  when  the 
reputable  press  of  this  country  was  so  united 
in  its  campaign  to  kill  off  a  man  as  it  is  now  in 
its  campaign  to  kill  off  Mallard.  No  paper 
gives  him  countenance,  except  some  of  these 
foreign-language  rags  and  these  dirty  little 
disloyal  sheets;  and  until  here  just  lately  even 
they  didn't  dare  to  come  out  in  the  open  and 
applaud  him.  Anyway,  who  reads  them  as 
compared  with  those  who  read  the  real  news 
papers  and  the  real  magazines?  Nobody!  And 
yet  he  gets  stronger  every  day.  He's  a  national 
menace — that's  what  he  is." 

"You  said  it  again,  son,"  said  Quinlan. 
"Six  months  ago  he  was  a  national  nuisance 
and  now  he's  a  national  menace;  and  who's 
responsible — or,  rather,  what's  responsible — 
for  him  being  a  national  menace?  Well,  I'm 
going  to  tell  you;  but  first  I'm  going  to  tell  you 
something  about  Mallard.  I've  known  him 
for  twelve  years,  more  or  less — ever  since  he 
[66]  


THE     THUNDERS      OF     SILENCE 

came  here  to  Washington  in  his  long  frock  coat 
that  didn't  fit  him  and  his  big  black  slouch 
hat  and  his  white  string  tie  and  in  all  the  rest 
of  the  regalia  of  the  counterfeit  who's  trying  to 
fool  people  into  believing  he's  part  tribune  and 
part  peasant." 

"You  wouldn't  call  Mallard  a  counterfeit, 
would  you? — a  man  with  the  gifts  he's  got," 
broke  in  Drayton.  "I've  heard  him  called 
everything  else  nearly  in  the  English  language, 
but  you're  the  first  man  that  ever  called  him  a 
counterfeit,  to  my  knowledge!" 

"Counterfeit?  Why,  he's  as  bogus  as  a 
pewter  dime,"  said  Quinlan.  "I  tell  you  I 
know  the  man.  Because  you  don't  know  him 
he's  got  you  fooled  the  same  as  he's  got  so 
many  other  people  fooled.  Because  he  looks 
like  a  steel  engraving  of  Henry  Clay  you  think 
he  is  a  Henry  Clay,  I  suppose — anyhow,  a  lot 
of  other  people  do;  but  I'm  telling  you  his 
resemblance  to  Henry  Clay  is  all  on  the  out 
side — it  doesn't  strike  in  any  farther  than  the 
hair  roots.  He  calls  himself  a  self-made  man. 
Well,  he's  not;  he's  self-assembled,  that's  all. 
He's  made  up  of  standardised  and  inter 
changeable  parts.  He's  compounded  of  some 
thing  borrowed  from  every  political  mounte 
bank  who's  pulled  that  old  bunk  about  being 
a  friend  of  the  great  common  people  and  got 
ten  away  with  it  during  the  last  fifty  years. 
He's  not  a  real  genius.  He's  a  synthetic 
genius. 


FROM     PLACE     TO     PLACE 

"There  are  just  two  things  about  Mallard 
that  are  not  spurious — two  things  that  make 
up  the  real  essence  and  tissue  of  him:  One  is 
his  genius  as  a  speaker  and  the  other  is  his 
vanity;  and  the  bigger  of  these,  you  take  it 
from  me,  is  his  vanity.  That's  the  thing  he 
feeds  on — vanity.  It's  the  breath  in  his 
nostrils,  it's  the  savour  and  the  salt  on  his  daily 
bread.  He  lives  on  publicity,  on  notoriety, 
And  yet  you,  a  newspaper  man,  sit  here  won 
dering  how  the  newspapers  could  kill  him, 
and  never  guessing  the  real  answer." 

"Well,  what  is  the  answer  then?"  demanded 
Dray  ton. 

"Wait,  I'm  coming  to  that.  The  press  is 
always  prating  about  the  power  of  the  press, 
always  nagging  about  pitiless  publicity  being 
potent  to  destroy  an  evil  thing  or  a  bad  man, 
and  all  that  sort  of  rot.  And  yet  every  day 
the  newspapers  give  the  lie  to  their  own  boast 
ings.  It's  true,  Drayton,  that  up  to  a  certain 
point  the  newspapers  can  make  a  man  by  print 
ing  favourable  things  about  him.  By  that 
same  token  they  imagine  they  can  tear  him 
down  by  printing  unfavourable  things  about 
him.  They  think  they  can,  but  they  can't. 
Let  them  get  together  in  a  campaign  of  vitu 
peration  against  a  man,  and  at  once  they  set 
everybody  to  talking  about  him.  Then  let 
them  carry  their  campaign  just  over  a  psy 
chological  dividing  line,  and  right  away  they 
begin,  against  their  wills,  to  manufacture  sen- 
[68] 


THE     THUNDERS      OF     SILENCE 

timent  for  him.  The  reactions  of  printer's 
ink  are  stronger  somehow  than  its  original 
actions — its  chemical  processes  acquire  added 
strength  in  the  back  kick.  What  has  saved 
many  a  rotten  criminal  in  this  country  from 
getting  his  just  deserts?  It  wasn't  the  fact 
that  the  newspapers  were  all  for  him.  It  was 
the  fact  that  all  the  newspapers  were  against 
him.  The  under  dog  may  be  ever  so  bad  a 
dog,  but  only  let  enough  of  us  start  kicking  him 
all  together,  and  what's  the  result?  Sympathy 
for  him — that's  what.  Calling  'Unclean,  un 
clean!'  after  a  leper  never  yet  made  people 
shun  him.  It  only  makes  them  crowd  up 
closer  to  see  his  sores.  I'll  bet  if  the  facts  were 
known  that  was  true  two  thousand  years  ago. 
Certainly  it's  true  to-day,  and  human  nature 
doesn't  change. 

"But  the  newspapers  have  one  weapon 
they've  never  yet  used;  at  least  as  a  unit 
they've  never  used  it.  It's  the  strongest 
weapon  they've  got,  and  the  cheapest,  and  the 
most  terrible,  and  yet  they  let  it  lie  in  its 
scabbard  and  rust.  With  that  weapon  they 
could  destroy  any  human  being  of  the  type  of 
Jason  Mallard  in  one-twentieth  of  the  time 
it  takes  them  to  build  up  public  opinion  for 
or  against  him.  And  yet  they  can't  see  it — 
or  won't  see  that  it's  there,  all  forged  and 
ready  to  their  hands." 

"And  that  weapon  is  what?"  asked  Drayton. 

"Silence.  Absolute,  utter  silence.  Silence 
[69]  


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

is  the  loudest  thing  in  the  world.  It  thunders 
louder  than  the  thunder.  And  it's  the  dead 
liest.  What  drives  men  mad  who  are  put  in 
solitary  confinement?  The  darkness?  The 
solitude?  Well,  they  help.  But  it's  silence 
that  does  the  trick — silence  that  roars  in  their 
ears  until  it  cracks  their  ear-drums  and  curdles 
their  brains. 

"Mallard  is  a  national  peril,  we'll  concede. 
Very  well  then,  he  should  be  destroyed.  And 
the  surest,  quickest,  best  way  for  the  news 
papers  to  destroy  him  is  to  wall  him  up  in 
silence,  to  put  a  vacuum  bell  of  silence  down 
over  him,  to  lock  him  up  in  silence,  to  bury  him 
alive  in  silence.  And  that's  a  simpler  thing 
than  it  sounds.  They  have,  all  of  them,  only 
to  do  one  little  thing — just  quit  printing  his 


name." 


"But  they  can't  quit  printing  his  name, 
Quinlan!"  exclaimed  Drayton.  "Mallard's 
news;  he's  the  biggest  figure  in  the  news  that 
there  is  to-day  in  this  country." 

"That's  the  same  foolish  argument  that 
the  average  newspaper  man  would  make," 
said  Quinlan  scornfully.  "Mallard  is  news 
because  the  newspapers  make  news  of  him — 
and  for  no  other  reason.  Let  them  quit,  and 
he  isn't  news  any  more — he's  a  nonentity,  he's 
nothing  at  all,  he's  null  and  he's  void.  So  far 
as  public  opinion  goes  he  will  cease  to  exist, 
and  a  thing  that  has  ceased  to  exist  is  no  longer 
news — once  you've  printed  the  funeral  notice. 
[70] 


THE     THUNDERS      OF     SILENCE 

Every  popular  thing,  every  conspicuous  thing 
in  the  world  is  born  of  notoriety  and  fed  on 
notoriety — newspaper  notoriety.  Notoriety  is 
as  essential  to  the  object  of  notoriety  itself  as 
it  is  in  fashioning  the  sentiments  of  those  who 
read  about  it.  And  there's  just  one  place 
where  you  ean  get  wholesale,  nation-wide 
notoriety  to-day — out  of  the  jaws  of  a  printing 
press. 

"We  call  baseball  our  national  pastime — 
granted!  But  let  the  newspapers,  all  of  them, 
during  one  month  of  this  coming  spring,  quit 
printing  a  word  about  baseball,  and  you'd  see 
the  parks  closed  up  and  the  weeds  growing 
on  the  base  lines  and  the  turnstiles  rusting 
solid.  You  remember  those  deluded  ladies 
who  almost  did  the  cause  of  suffrage  some 
damage  last  year  by  picketing  the  White  House 
and  bothering  the  President  when  he  was  busy 
with  the  biggest  job  that  any  man  had  tackled 
in  this  country  since  Abe  Lincoln?  Remember 
how  they  raised  such  a  hullabaloo  when  they 
were  sent  to  the  workhouse?  Well,  suppose 
the  newspapers,  instead  of  giving  them  front 
page  headlines  and  columns  of  space  every 
day,  had  refused  to  print  a  line  about  them  or 
even  so  much  as  to  mention  their  names.  Do 
you  believe  they  would  have  stuck  to  the  job 
week  after  week  as  they  did  stick  to  it?  I  tell 
you  they'd  have  quit  cold  inside  of  forty-eight 
hours. 

"Son,  your  average  latter-day  martyr  en- 

_  - 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

dures  his  captivity  with  fortitude  because 
he  knows  the  world,  through  thg  papers,  is 
going  to  hear  the  pleasant  clar.king  of  his 
chains.  Otherwise  he'd  burst  f -om  his  cell 
with  a  disappointed  yell  and  go  out  of  the 
martyr  business  instanter.  He  may  not  fear 
the  gallows  or  the  stake  or  the  pillory,  but 
he  certainly  does  love  his  press/  notices.  He 
may  or  may  not  keep  the  faitK,  but  you  can 
bet  he  always  keeps  a  scrapbook.  Silence — 
that's  the  thing  he  fears  more  than  hang 
man's  nooses  or  firing  squads. 

"And  that's  the  cure  for  your  friend, 
Jason  Mallard,  Esquire.  Let  the  press  of 
this  country  put  the  curse  of  silence  on  him 
and  he's  done  for.  Silence  will  kill  off  his 
cause  and  kill  off  his  following  and  kill  him 
off.  It  will  kill  him  politically  and  figura 
tively.  I'm  not  sure,  knowing  the  man  as 
I  do,  but  what  it  will  kill  him  actually.  En 
tomb  him  in  silence  and  he'll  be  a  body  of 
death  and  corruption  in  two  weeks.  Just 
let  the  newspapers  and  the  magazines  provide 
the  grave,  and  the  corpse  will  provide  itself." 

Drayton  felt  himself  catching  the  fever  of 
Quinlan's  fire.  He  broke  in  eagerly. 

"But,  Quinlan,  how  could  it  be  done?" 
he  asked.  "How  could  you  get  concerted 
action  for  a  thing  that's  so  revolutionary,  so 
unprecedented,  so " 

"This  happens  to  be  one  time  in  the  history 
of  the  United  States  when  you  could  get  it," 


THE      THUNDERS      OF      SILENCE 

said  the  inebriate.     "You  could  get  it  because 
the  press  is  practically  united  today  in  favour 
of  real  Americanism.     Let  some  man  like  your 
editor-in-chief,  Fred  Core,  or  like  Carlos  Seers 
of  the  Era,  or  Manuel  Oxus  of  the  Period,  or 
Malcolm  Flint  of  the  A.  P.  call  a  private  meet 
ing   in   New  York  of  the  biggest  individual 
publishers    of    daily    papers    and    the    leading 
magazine  publishers  and  the  heads  of  all  the 
press  associations  and  news  syndicates,  from 
the  big  fellows  clear  down  to  the  shops  that 
sell  boiler  plate  to  the  country  weeklies  with 
patent  insides.     Through  their  concerted   in 
fluence  that  crowd  could  put  the  thing  over 
in    twenty-four   hours.     They    could    line    up 
the    Authors'    League,    line    up     the  defence 
societies,    line    up    the    national    advertisers, 
line  up  organised  labour  in  the  printing  trades — 
line  up  everybody  and  everything  worth  while. 
Oh,  it  could  be  done — make  no  mistake  about 
that.     Call  it  a  boycott;   call  it  coercion,  mob 
law,    lynch    law,    anything    you    please — it's 
justifiable.     And  there'd  be  no  way  out  for 
Mallard.     He  couldn't  bring  an  injunction  suit 
to  make  a  newspaper  publisher  print  his  name. 
He  couldn't  buy  advertising  space  to  tell  about 
himself  if  nobody  would  sell  it  to  him.     There's 
only  one  thing  he  could  do — and  if  I'm  any 
judge  he'd  do  it,  sooner  or  later." 

Young  Dray  ton  stood  up.     His  eyes  were 
blazing. 

"Do    you    know    what    I'm    going    to    do, 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

Quinlan?"  he  asked.  "I'm  going  to  run  up 
to  New  York  on  the  midnight  train.  If  I 
can't  get  a  berth  on  a  sleeper  I'll  sit  up  in  a 
day  coach.  I'm  going  to  rout  Fred  Core 
out  of  bed  before  breakfast  time  in  the  morning 
and  put  this  thing  up  to  him  just  as  you've 
put  it  up  to  me  here  to-night.  If  I  can  make 
him  see  it  as  you've  made  me  see  it,  he'll  get 
busy.  If  he  doesn't  see  it,  there's  no  harm 
done.  But  in  any  event  it's  your  idea,  and  I'll 
see  to  it  that  you're  not  cheated  out  of  the  credit 
for  it." 

The  dipsomaniac  shook  his  head.  The  flame 
of  inspiration  had  died  out  in  Quinlan;  he  was 
a  dead  crater  again — a  drunkard  quivering  for 
the  lack  of  stimulant. 

"Never  mind  the  credit,  son.  What  was  it 
wise  old  Omar  said — 'Take  the  cash  and  let  the 
credit  go'? — something  like  that  anyhow.  You 
run  along  up  to  New  York  and  kindle  the  fires. 
But  before  you  start  I  wish  you'd  loan  me  about 
two  dollars.  Some  of  these  days  when  my 
luck  changes  I'll  pay  it  all  back.  I'm  keeping 
track  of  what  I  owe  you.  Or  say,  Dray  ton — 
make  it  five  dollars,  won't  you,  if  you  can 
spare  it?" 

Beforehand  there  was  no  announcement  of 
the  purpose  to  be  accomplished.  The  men  in 
charge  of  the  plan  and  the  men  directly  under 
them,  whom  they  privily  commissioned  to 
carry  out  their  intent,  were  all  of  them  sworn 
[74] 


THE      THUNDERS      OF      SILENCE 

to  secrecy.  And  all  of  them  kept  the  pledge. 
On  a  Monday  Congressman  Mallard's  name 
appeared  in  practically  every  daily  paper  in 
America,  for  it  was  on  that  evening  that  he  was 
to  address  a  mass  meeting  at  a  hall  on  the  Lower 
West  Side  of  New  York — a  meeting  ostensibly 
to  be  held  under  the  auspices  of  a  so-called 
society  for  world  peace.  But  sometime  during 
Monday  every  publisher  of  every  newspaper 
and  periodical,  or  every  trade  paper,  every 
religious  paper,  every  farm  paper  in  America, 
received  a  telegram  from  a  certain  address  in 
New  York.  This  telegram  was  marked  Con 
fidential.  It  was  signed  by  a  formidable  list  of 
names.  It  was  signed  by  three  of  the  most 
distinguished  editors  in  America;  by  the  heads 
of  all  the  important  news-gathering  and  news- 
distributing  agencies;  by  the  responsible  heads 
of  the  leading  feature  syndicates;  by  the  presi 
dents  of  the  two  principal  telegraph  companies; 
by  the  presidents  of  the  biggest  advertising 
agencies;  by  a  former  President  of  the  United 
States;  by  a  great  Catholic  dignitary;  by  a 
great  Protestant  evangelist,  and  by  the  most 
eloquent  rabbi  in  America;  by  the  head  of  the 
largest  banking  house  on  this  continent;  by  a 
retired  military  officer  of  the  highest  rank;  by 
a  national  leader  of  organised  labour;  by  the 
presidents  of  four  of  the  leading  universities; 
and  finally  by  a  man  who,  though  a  private 
citizen,  was  popularly  esteemed  to  be  the 

mouthpiece  of  the  National  Administration. 

[75] 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

While  this  blanket  telegram  was  travelling 
over  the  wires  a  certain  magazine  publisher 
was  stopping  his  presses  to  throw  out  a  special 
article  for  the  writing  of  which  he  had  paid 
fifteen  hundred  dollars  to  the  best  satirical 
essayist  in  the  country;  and  another  publisher 
was  countermanding  the  order  he  had  given 
to  a  distinguished  caricaturist  for  a  series  of 
cartoons  all  dealing  with  the  same  subject,  and 
was  tearing  up  two  of  the  cartoons  which  had 
already  been  delivered  and  for  which  he  already 
had  paid.  He  offered  to  pay  for  the  cartoons 
not  yet  drawn,  but  the  artist  declined  to  accept 
further  payment  when  he  was  told  in  confidence 
the  reason  for  the  cancellation  of  the  com 
mission. 

On  a  Monday  morning  Congressman  Jason 
Mallard's  name  was  in  every  paper;  his  picture 

was  in  many  of  them.  On  the  day  following 

But  I  am  getting  ahead  of  my  story.  Monday 
evening  comes  before  Tuesday  morning,  and 
first  I  should  tell  what  befell  on  Monday 
evening  down  on  the  Lower  West  Side. 

That  Monday  afternoon  Mallard  came  up 
from  Washington;  only  his  secretary  came  with 
him.  Three  men — the  owner  of  a  publication 
lately  suppressed  by  the  Post  Office  Department 
for  seditious  utterances,  a  former  clergyman 
whose  attitude  in  the  present  crisis  had  cost 
him  his  pulpit,  and  a  former  college  professor 
of  avowedly  anarchistic  tendencies — met  him 
at  the  Pennsylvania  Station.  Of  the  three  only 
[76]  


THE     THUNDERS      OF     SILENCE 

the  clergyman  had  a  name  which  bespoke 
Anglo-Saxon  ancestry.  These  three  men  ac 
companied  him  to  the  home  of  the  editor,  where 
they  dined  together;  and  when  the  dinner  was 
ended  an  automobile  bore  the  party  through  a 
heavy  snowstorm  to  the  hall  where  Mallard 
was  to  speak. 

That  is  to  say,  it  bore  the  party  to  within  a 
block  and  a  half  of  the  hall.  It  could  get  no 
nearer  than  that  by  reason  of  the  fact  that  the 
narrow  street  from  house  line  on  one  side  to 
house  line  on  the  other  was  jammed  with  men 
and  women,  thousands  of  them,  who,  coming 
too  late  to  secure  admission  to  the  hall — the 
hall  was  crowded  as  early  as  seven  o'clock — had 
stayed  on,  outside,  content  to  see  their  champion 
and  to  cheer  him  since  they  might  not  hear 
him.  They  were  half  frozen.  The  snow  in 
which  they  stood  had  soaked  their  shoes  and 
chilled  their  feet;  there  were  holes  in  the  shoes 
which  some  of  them  wore.  The  snow  stuck  to 
their  hats  and  clung  on  their  shoulders,  making 
streaks  there  like  fleecy  epaulets  done  in  the 
colour  of  peace,  which  also  is  the  colour  of 
cowardice  and  surrender.  There  was  a  cold 
wind  which  made  them  all  shiver  and  set  the 
teeth  of  many  of  them  to  chattering;  but  they 
had  waited. 

A  squad  of  twenty-odd  policemen  aligned 
in  a  triangular  formation  about  Mallard  and 
his  sponsors  and,  with  Captain  Bull  Hargis 
of  the  Traffic  Squad  as  its  massive  apex,  this 

""      ~ "     [77] 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

human  ploughshare  literally  slugged  a  path 
through  the  mob  to  the  side  entrance  of  the 
hall.  By  sheer  force  the  living  wedge  made  a 
furrow  in  the  multitude — a  furrow  that  in 
stantly  closed  in  behind  it  as  it  pressed  forward. 
Undoubtedly  the  policemen  saved  Congressman 
Mallard  from  being  crushed  and  buffeted  down 
under  the  caressing  hands  of  those  who  strove 
with  his  bodyguard  to  touch  him,  to  embrace 
him,  to  clasp  his  hand.  Foreign-born  women, 
whose  sons  were  in  the  draft,  sought  to  kiss 
the  hem  of  his  garments  when  he  passed  them 
by,  and  as  they  stooped  they  were  bowled  over 
by  the  uniformed  burlies  and  some  of  them 
were  trampled.  Disregarding  the  buffeting 
blows  of  the  policemen's  gloved  fists,  men, 
old,  young  and  middle-aged,  flung  themselves 
against  the  escorts,  crying  out  greetings.  Above 
the  hysterical  yelling  rose  shrill  cries  of  pain, 
curses,  shrieks.  Guttural  sounds  of  cheering 
in  snatchy  fragments  were  mingled  with  terms 
of  approval  and  of  endearment  and  of  affection 
uttered  in  English,  in  German,  in  Russian,  in 
Yiddish  and  in  Finnish. 

Afterward  Captain  Bull  Hargis  said  that 
never  in  his  recollection  of  New  York  crowds 
had  there  been  a  crowd  so  hard  to  contend 
against  or  one  so  difficult  to  penetrate;  he 
said  this  between  gasps  for  breath  while 
nursing  a  badly  sprained  thumb.  The  men 
under  him  agreed  with  him.  The  thing 
overpassed  anything  in  their  professional  ex- 
[78] 


THE      THUNDERS      OF      SILENCE 

periences.    Several  of  them  were  veterans   of 
the  force  too. 

It  was  a  dramatic  entrance  which  Congress 
man  Mallard  made  before  his  audience  within 
the  hall,  packed  as  the  hall  was,  with  its  air 
all  hot  and  sticky  with  the  animal  heat  of 
thousands  of  closely  bestowed  human  bodies. 
Hardly  could  it  have  been  a  more  dramatic 
entrance.  From  somewhere  in  the  back  he 
suddenly  came  out  upon  the  stage.  He  was 
bareheaded  and  bare-throated.  Outside  in 
that  living  whirlpool  his  soft  black  hat  had 
been  plucked  from  his  head  and  was  gone. 
His  collar,  tie  and  all,  had  been  torn  from  about 
his  neck,  and  the  same  rudely  affectionate  hand 
that  wrested  the  collar  away  had  ripped  his 
linen  shirt  open  so  that  the  white  flesh  of  his 
chest  showed  through  the  gap  of  the  tear.  His 
great  disorderly  mop  of  bright  red  hair  stood 
erect  on  his  scalp  like  an  oriflamme.  His  over 
coat  was  half  on  and  half  off  his  back. 

At  sight  of  him  the  place  rose  at  him,  howling 
out  its  devotion.  He  flung  off  his  overcoat, 
letting  it  fall  upon  the  floor,  and  he ,  strode 
forward  almost  to  the  trough  of  the  footlights; 
and  then  for  a  space  he  stood  there  on  the 
rounded  apron  of  the  platform,  staring  out  into 
the  troubled,  tossing  pool  of  contorted  faces 
and  tossing  arms  below  him  and  about  him. 
Demagogue  he  may  have  been;  demigod  he 
looked  in  that,  his  moment  of  supreme  triumph, 
biding  his  time  to  play  upon  the  passions  and 

__ 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

the  prejudices  of  this  multitude  as  a  master 
organist  would  play  upon  the  pipes  of  an  organ. 
Here  was  clay,  plastic  to  his  supple  fingers — 
here  in  this  seething  conglomerate  of  half- 
baked  intellectuals,  of  emotional  rebels  against 
constituted  authority,  of  alien  enemies,  of  mal 
contents  and  malingerers,  of  parlour  anarchists 
from  the  studios  of  Bohemianism  and  authentic 
anarchists  from  the  slums. 

Ten  blaring,  exultant  minutes  passed  before 
the  ex-clergyman,  who  acted  as  chairman, 
could  secure  a  measure  of  comparative  quiet. 
At  length  there  came  a  lull  in  the  panting 
tumult.  Then  the  chair  made  an  announce 
ment  which  brought  forth  in  fuller  volume 
than  ever  a  responsive  roar  of  approval.  He 
announced  that  on  the  following  night  and  on 
the  night  after,  Congressman  Mallard  would 
speak  at  Madison  Square  Garden,  under  the 
largest  roof  on  Manhattan  Island.  The  com 
mittee  in  charge  had  been  emboldened  by  the 
size  of  this  present  outpouring  to  engage  the 
garden;  the  money  to  pay  the  rent  for  those 
two  nights  had  already  been  subscribed;  ad 
mission  would  be  free;  all  would  be  welcome 
to  come  and — quoting  the  chairman — "to  hear 
the  truth  about  the  war  into  which  the  Gov 
ernment,  at  the  bidding  of  the  capitalistic 
classes,  had  plunged  the  people  of  the  nation." 
Then  in  ten  words  he  introduced  the  speaker, 
and  as  the  speaker  raised  his  arms  above  his 
head  invoking  quiet,  there  fell,  magically,  a 

~ "  [80] 


THE      THUNDERS      OF      SILENCE 

quick,  deep,  breathless  hush  upon  the  palpi 
tant  gathering. 

"And  this" — he  began  without  preamble 
in  that  great  resonant  voice  of  his,  that  was 
like  a  blast  of  a  trumpet — "and  this,  my 
countrymen,  is  the  answer  which  the  plain 
people  of  this  great  city  make  to  a  corrupted 
and  misguided  press  that  would  crucify  any 
man  who  dares  defy  it." 

He  spoke  for  more  than  an  hour,  and  when 
he  was  done  his  hearers  were  as  madmen  and 
madwomen.  And  yet  so  skilfully  had  he 
phrased  his  utterances,  so  craftily  had  he 
injected  the  hot  poison,  so  deftly  had  he  avoided 
counselling  outright  disobedience  to  the  law, 
that  sundry  secret-service  men  who  had  been 
detailed  to  attend  the  meeting  and  to  arrest 
the  speaker,  United  States  representative 
though  he  be,  in  case  he  preached  a  single 
sentence  of  what  might  be  interpreted  as  open 
treason,  were  completely  circumvented. 

It  is  said  that  on  this  night  Congressman 
Mallard  made  the  best  speech  he  ever  made 
in  his  whole  life.  But  as  to  that  we  cannot 
be  sure,  and  for  this  reason: 

On  Monday  morning,  as  has  twice  been 
stated  in  this  account,  Congressman  Mallard's 
name  was  in  every  paper,  nearly,  in  America. 
On  Tuesday  morning  not  a  line  concerning 
him  or  concerning  his  speech  or  the  remarkable 
demonstration  of  the  night  before — not  a  line 
of  news,  not  a  line  of  editorial  comment,  not  a 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

paragraph — appeared  in  any  newspaper  printed 
in  the  English  language  on  this  continent. 
The  silent  war  had  started. 

Tuesday  evening  at  eight-fifteen  Congress 
man  Mallard  came  to  Madison  Square  Garden, 
accompanied  by  the  honour  guard  of  his  spon 
sors.  The  police  department,  taking  warning 
by  what  had  happened  on  Monday  night  down 
on  the  West  Side,  had  sent  the  police  reserves 
of  four  precincts — six  hundred  uniformed  men, 
under  an  inspector  and  three  captains — to 
handle  the  expected  congestion  inside  and  out 
side  the  building.  These  six  hundred  men  had 
little  to  do  after  they  formed  into  lines  and 
lanes  except  to  twiddle  their  night  sticks  and 
to  stamp  their  chilled  feet. 

For  a  strange  thing  befell.  Thousands  had 
participated  in  the  affair  of  the  night  before. 
By  word  of  mouth  these  thousands  most  surely 
must  have  spread  the  word  among  many  times 
their  own  number  of  sympathetic  individuals. 
And  yet — this  was  the  strange  part — by  actual 
count  less  than  fifteen  hundred  persons,  ex 
clusive  of  the  policemen,  who  were  there 
because  their  duty  sent  them  there,  attended 
Tuesday  night's  meeting.  To  be  exact  there 
were  fourteen  hundred  and  seventy-five  of 
them.  In  the  vast  oval  of  the  interior  they 
made  a  ridiculously  small  clump  set  midway 
of  the  arena,  directly  in  front  of  the  platform 
that  had  been  put  up.  All  about  them  were 
wide  reaches  of  seating  space — empty.  The 

[82]        " 


THE     THUNDERS      OF     SILENCE 

place  was  a  huge  vaulted  cavern,  cheerless  as 
a  cave,  full  of  cold  drafts  and  strange  echoes. 
Congressman  Mallard  spoke  less  than  an  hour, 
and  this  time  he  did  not  make  the  speech  of 
his  life. 

Wednesday  night  thirty  policemen  were  on 
duty  at  Madison  Square  Garden,  Acting 
Captain  O'Hara  of  the  West  Thirtieth  Street 
Station  being  in  command.  Over  the  tele 
phone  to  headquarters  O'Hara,  at  eight-thirty, 
reported  that  his  tally  accounted  for  two 
hundred  and  eighty-one  persons  present.  Con 
gressman  Mallard,  he  stated,  had  not  arrived 
yet,  but  was  momentarily  expected. 

At  eight-forty-five  O'Hara  telephoned  again. 
Congressman  Mallard  had  just  sent  word  that 
he  was  ill  and  would  not  be  able  to  speak. 
This  message  had  been  brought  by  Professor 
Rascovertus,  the  former  college  professor,  who 
had  come  in  a  cab  and  had  made  the  bare 
announcement  to  those  on  hand  and  then  had 
driven  away.  The  assembled  two  hundred 
and  eighty-one  had  heard  the  statement  in 
silence  and  forthwith  had  departed  in  a  quiet 
and  orderly  manner.  O'Hara  asked  permission 
to  send  his  men  back  to  the  station  house. 

Congressman  Mallard  returned  to  Washing 
ton  on  the  midnight  train,  his  secretary  ac 
companying  him.  Outwardly  he  did  not  bear 
himself  like  a  sick  man,  but  on  his  handsome 
face  was  a  look  which  the  secretary  had  never 
before  seen  on  his  employer's  face.  It  was 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

the  look  of  a  man  who  asks  himself  a  question 
over  and  over  again. 

On  Thursday,  in  conspicuous  type,  black 
faced  and  double-leaded,  there  appeared  on  the 
front  page  and  again  at  the  top  of  the  editorial 
column  of  every  daily  paper,  morning  and 
evening,  in  the  United  States,  and  in  every 
weekly  and  every  monthly  paper  whose  date 
of  publication  chanced  to  be  Thursday,  the 
following  paragraph: 

"There  is  a  name  which  the  press  of  America 
no  longer  prints.  Let  every  true  American, 
in  public  or  in  private,  cease  hereafter  from 
uttering  that  name." 

Invariably  the  caption  over  this  paragraph 
was  the  one  word: 

SILENCE! 

One  week  later,  to  the  day,  the  wife  of  one 
of  the  richest  men  in  America  died  of  acute 
pneumonia  at  her  home  in  Chicago.  Practically 
all  the  daily  papers  in  America  carried  notices 
of  this  lady's  death;  the  wealth  of  her  husband 
and  her  own  prominence  in  social  and  philan 
thropic  affairs  justified  this.  At  greater  or  at 
less  length  it  was  variously  set  forth  that  she 
was  the  niece  of  a  former  ambassador  to  the 
Court  of  St.  James;  that  she  was  the  national 
head  of  a  great  patriotic  organisation;  that  she 
was  said  to  have  dispensed  upward  of  fifty 
thousand  dollars  a  year  in  charities;  that  she 

[84] 


THE      THUNDERS      OF      SILENCE 

was  born  in  such  and  such  a  year  at  such  and 
such  a  place;  that  she  left,  besides  a  husband, 
three  children  and  one  grandchild;  and  so  forth 
and  so  on. 

But  not  a  single  paper  in  the  United  States 
stated  that  she  was  the  only  sister  of  Con 
gressman  Jason  Mallard. 

The  remainder  of  this  account  must  nec 
essarily  be  in  the  nature  of  a  description  of 
episodes  occurring  at  intervals  during  a  period 
of  about  six  weeks;  these  episodes,  though 
separated  by  lapses  of  time,  are  nevertheless 
related. 

Three  days  after  the  burial  of  his  sister  Con 
gressman  Mallard  took  part  in  a  debate  on  a 
matter  of  war-tax  legislation  upon  the  floor  of 
the  House.  As  usual  he  voiced  the  sentiments 
of  a  minority  of  one,  his  vote  being  the  only 
vote  cast  in  the  negative  on  the  passage  of  the 
measure.  His  speech  was  quite  brief.  To 
his  colleagues,  listening  in  dead  silence  without 
sign  of  dissent  or  approval,  it  seemed  exceed 
ingly  brief,  seeing  that  nearly  always  before 
Mallard,  when  he  spoke  at  all  upon  any  ques 
tion,  spoke  at  length.  While  he  spoke  the  men 
in  the  press  gallery  took  no  notes,  and  when  he 
had  finished  and  was  leaving  the  chamber  it 
was  noted  that  the  venerable  Congressman 
Boulder,  a  man  of  nearly  eighty,  drew  himself 
well  into  his  seat,  as  though  he  feared  Mallard 
in  passing  along  the  aisle  might  brush  against 
him. 

__     


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

The  only  publication  in  America  that  carried 
a  transcript  of  Congressman  Mallard's  remarks 
on  this  occasion  was  the  Congressional  Record. 

At  the  next  day's  session  Congressman 
Mallard's  seat  was  vacant;  the  next  day  like 
wise,  and  the  next  it  was  vacant.  It  was 
rumoured  that  he  had  left  Washington,  his 
exact  whereabouts  being  unknown.  However, 
no  one  in  Washington,  so  far  as  was  known,  in 
speaking  of  his  disappearance,  mentioned  him 
by  name.  One  man  addressing  another  would 
merely  say  that  he  understood  a  certain  person 
had  left  town  or  that  he  understood  a  certain 
person  was  still  missing  from  town;  the  second 
man  in  all  likelihood  would  merely  nod  under- 
standingly  and  then  by  tacit  agreement  the 
subject  would  be  changed. 

Just  outside  one  of  the  lunch  rooms  in  the 
Union  Station  at  St.  Louis  late  one  night 
in  the  latter  part  of  January  an  altercation 
occurred  between  two  men.  One  was  a  tall, 
distinguished-looking  man  of  middle  age.  The 
other  was  a  railroad  employe — a  sweeper  and 
cleaner. 

It  seemed  that  the  tall  man,  coming  out 
of  the  lunch  room,  and  carrying  a  travelling 
bag  and  a  cane,  stumbled  over  the  broom 
which  the  sweeper  was  using  on  the  floor  just 
beyond  the  doorway.  The  traveller,  who 
appeared  to  have  but  poor  control  over  his 
temper,  or  rather  no  control  at  all  over  it, 
[86]  


THE      THUNDERS      OF      SILENCE 

accused  the  station  hand  of  carelessness  and 
cursed  him.  The  station  hand  made  an 
indignant  and  impertinent  denial.  At  that  the 
other  flung  down  his  bag,  swung  aloft  his  heavy 
walking  stick  and  struck  the  sweeper  across 
the  head  with  force  sufficient  to  lay  open  the 
victim's  scalp  in  a  two-inch  gash,  which  bled 
freely. 

For  once  a  policeman  was  on  the  spot  when 
trouble  occurred.  This  particular  policeman 
was  passing  through  the  train  shed  and  he 
saw  the  blow  delivered.  He  ran  up  and,  to  be 
on  the  safe  side,  put  both  men  under  technical 
arrest.  The  sweeper,  who  had  been  bowled 
over  by  the  clout  he  had  got,  made  a  charge  of 
unprovoked  assault  against  the  stranger;  the 
latter  expressed  a  blasphemous  regret  that  he 
had  not  succeeded  in  cracking  the  sweeper's 
skull.  He  appeared  to  be  in  a  highly  nervous, 
highly  irritable  state.  At  any  rate  such  was 
the  interpretation  which  the  patrolman  put 
upon  his  aggressive  prisoner's  behaviour. 

Walking  between  the  pair  to  prevent  further 
hostilities  the  policeman  took  both  men  into  the 
station  master's  office,  his  intention  being  to 
telephone  from  there  for  a  patrol  wagon.  The 
night  station  master  accompanied  them.  Inside 
the  room,  while  the  station  master  was  binding 
up  the  wound  in  the  sweeper's  forehead  with  a 
pocket  handkerchief,  it  occurred  to  the  police 
man  that  in  the  flurry  of  excitement  he  had  not 
found  out  the  name  of  the  tall  and  still  excited 
[87] 


FROM      PLACE     TO      PLACE 

belligerent.  The  sweeper  he  already  knew. 
He  asked  the  tall  man  for  his  name  and  business. 

"My  name,"  said  the  prisoner,  "is  Jason  C. 
Mallard.  I  am  a  member  of  Congress." 

The  station  master  forgot  to  make  the  knot 
in  the  bandage  he  was  tying  about  the  sweeper's 
head.  The  sweeper  forgot  the  pain  of  his  new 
headache  and  the  blood  which  trickled  down 
his  face  and  fell  upon  the  front  of  his  overalls. 
As  though  governed  by  the  same  set  of  wires 
these  two  swung  about,  and  with  the  officer 
they  stared  at  the  stranger.  And  as  they 
stared,  recognition  came  into  the  eyes  of  all 
three,  and  they  marvelled  that  before  now 
none  of  them  had  discerned  the  identity  of  the 
owner  of  that  splendid  tousled  head  of  hair  and 
those  clean-cut  features,  now  swollen  and  red 
with  an  unreasonable  choler.  The  policeman 
was  the  first  to  get  his  shocked  and  jostled 
senses  back,  and  the  first  to  speak.  He  proved 
himself  a  quick-witted  person  that  night,  this 
policeman  did;  and  perhaps  this  helps  to  explain 
why  his  superior,  the  head  of  the  St.  Louis 
police  department,  on  the  very  next  day 
promoted  him  to  be  a  sergeant. 

But  when  he  spoke  it  was  not  to  Mallard  but 
to  the  sweeper. 

"Look  here,  Mel  Harris,"  he  said;  "you  call 
yourself  a  purty  good  Amurican,  don't  you?" 

"You  bet  your  life  I  do!"  was  the  answer. 
"Ain't  I  got  a  boy  in  camp  soldierin'?" 

"Well,  I  got  two  there  myself,"  said  the 
""  [88]  " 


THE     THUNDERS      OF     SILENCE 

policeman;  "but  that  ain't  the  question  now. 
I  see  you've  got  a  kind  of  a  little  bruised  place 
there  on  your  head.  Now  then,  as  a  good 
Amurican  tryin'  to  do  your  duty  to  your 
country  at  all  times,  I  want  you  to  tell  me  how 
you  come  by  that  there  bruise.  Did  somebody 
mebbe  hit  you,  or  as  a  matter  of  fact  ain't  it 
the  truth  that  you  jest  slipped  on  a  piece  of 
banana  peelin'  or  something  of  that  nature, 
and  fell  up  against  the  door  jamb  of  that  lunch 
room  out  yonder?" 

For  a  moment  the  sweeper  stared  at  his 
interrogator,  dazed.  Then  a  grin  of  appre 
ciation  bisected  his  homely  red-streaked  face. 

"Why,  it  was  an  accident,  officer,"  he 
answered.  "I  slipped  down  and  hit  my  own 
self  a  wallop,  jest  like  you  said.  Anyway,  it 
don't  amount  to  nothin'." 

"You  seen  what  happened,  didn't  you?" 
went  on  the  policeman,  addressing  the  station 
master.  " It  was  a  pure  accident,  wasn't  it?  " 

"That's  what  it  was — a  pure  accident," 
stated  the  statoin  master. 

"Then,  to  your  knowledge,  there  wasn't 
no  row  of  any  sort  occurring  round  here  to 
night?"  went  on  the  policeman. 

"Not  that  I  heard  of." 

"Well,  if  there  had  a-been  you'd  a-heard  of 
it,  wouldn't  you?" 

"Sure  I  would!" 

"That's  good,"  said  the  policeman.  He 
jabbed  a  gloved  thumb  toward  the  two 

__ 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

witnesses.  "Then,  see  here,  Harris!  Bern' 
as  it  was  an  accident  pure  and  simple  and 
your  own  fault  besides,  nobody — no  out 
sider — couldn't  a-had  nothin'  to  do  with  your 
gettin'  hurt,  could  he?" 

"Not  a  thing  in  the  world,"  replied  Harris. 

"Not  a  thing  in  the  world,"  echoed  the 
station  master. 

"And  you  ain't  got  any  charge  to  make 
against  anybody  for  what  was  due  to  your 
own  personal  awkwardness,  have  you?"  sug 
gested  the  blue-coated  prompter. 

"Certainly  I  ain't!"  disclaimed  Harris 
almost  indignantly. 

Mallard  broke  in:  "You  can't  do  this — you 
men,"  he  declared  hoarsely.  "I  struck  that 
man  and  I'm  glad  I  did  strike  him — damn 
him!  I  wish  I'd  killed  him.  I'm  willing  to 
take  the  consequences.  I  demand  that  you 
make  a  report  of  this  case  to  your  superior 
officer." 

As  though  he  had  not  heard  him — as  though 
he  did  not  know  a  fourth  person  was  present — 
the  policeman,  looking  right  past  Mallard 
with  a  levelled,  steady,  contemptuous  gaze, 
addressed  the  other  two.  His  tone  was  quite 
casual,  and  yet  somehow  he  managed  to  freight 
his  words  with  a  scorn  too  heavy  to  be  expressed 
in  mere  words : 

"Boys,"  he  said,  "it  seems-like  to  me  the  air 
in  this  room  is  so  kind  of  foul  that  it  ain't 
fitten  for  good  Amuricans  to  be  breathin'  it. 
[90] 


THE      THUNDERS      OF      SILENCE 

So  I'm  goin'  to  open  up  this  here  door  and  see 
if  it  don't  purify  itself — of  its  own  accord." 

He  stepped  back  and  swung  the  door  wide 
open;  then  stepped  over  and  joined  the  station 
master  and  the  sweeper.  And  there  together 
they  all  three  stood  without  a  word  from  any  one 
of  them  as  the  fourth  man,  with  his  face  deadly 
white  now  where  before  it  had  been  a  passionate 
red,  and  his  head  lolling  on  his  breast,  though 
he  strove  to  hold  it  rigidly  erect,  passed  silently 
out  of  the  little  office.  Through  the  opened 
door  the  trio  with  their  eyes  followed  him  while 
he  crossed  the  concrete  floor  of  the  concourse 
and  passed  through  a  gate.  They  continued  to 
watch  until  he  had  disappeared  in  the  murk, 
going  toward  where  a  row  of  parked  sleepers 
stood  at  the  far  end  of  the  train  shed. 

Yet  another  policeman  is  to  figure  in  this 
recital  of  events.  This  policeman's  name  is 
Caleb  Waggoner  and  this  Caleb  Waggoner 
was  and  still  is  the  night  marshal  in  a  small 
town  in  Iowa  on  the  Missouri  River.  He  is 
one-half  the  police  force  of  the  town,  the  other 
half  being  a  constable  who  does  duty  in  the 
daytime.  Waggoner  suffers  from  an  affection 
which  in  a  large  community  might  prevent  him 
from  holding  such  a  job  as  the  one  he  does  hold. 
He  has  an  impediment  of  the  speech  which  at 
all  times  causes  him  to  stammer  badly.  When 
he  is  excited  it  is  only  by  a  tremendous  mental 
and  physical  effort  and  after  repeated  en- 
[91]  


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

deavours  that  he  can  form  the  words  at  all. 
In  other  regards  he  is  a  first-rate  officer,  sober, 
trustworthy  and  kindly. 

On  the  night  of  the  eighteenth  of  February, 
at  about  half  past  eleven  o'clock,  Marshal 
Waggoner  was  completing  his  regular  before- 
midnight  round  of  the  business  district.  The 
weather  was  nasty,  with  a  raw  wet  wind  blowing 
and  half-melted  slush  underfoot.  In  his  tour 
he  had  encountered  not  a  single  person.  That 
dead  dumb  quiet  which  falls  upon  a  sleeping 
town  on  a  winter's  night  was  all  about  him. 
But  as  he  turned  out  of  Main  Street,  which  is 
the  principal  thoroughfare,  into  Sycamore 
Street,  a  short  byway  running  down  between 
scattered  buildings  and  vacant  lots  to  the 
river  bank  a  short  block  away,  he  saw  a 
man  standing  at  the  side  door  of  the  Eagle 
House,  the  town's  second-best  hotel.  A  gas 
lamp  flaring  raggedly  above  the  doorway 
brought  out  the  figure  with  distinctness.  The 
man  was  not  moving — he  was  just  standing 
there,  with  the  collar  of  a  heavy  overcoat 
turned  up  about  his  throat  and  a  soft  black 
hat  with  a  wide  brim  drawn  well  down  upon 
his  head. 

Drawing  nearer,  Waggoner,  who  by  name  or 
by  sight  knew  every  resident  of  the  town,  made 
up  his  mind  that  the  loiterer  was  a  stranger. 
Now  a  stranger  abroad  at  such  an  hour  and 
apparently  with  no  business  to  mind  would  at 
once  be  mentally  catalogued  by  the  vigilant 

' 


THE     THUNDERS      OF     SILENCE 

night  marshal  as  a  suspicious  person.  So 
when  he  had  come  close  up  to  the  other,  padding 
noiselessly  in  his  heavy  rubber  boots,  the  officer 
halted  and  from  a  distance  of  six  feet  or  so 
stared  steadfastly  at  the  suspect.  The  suspect 
returned  the  look. 

What  Waggoner  saw  was  a  thin,  haggard 
face  covered  to  the  upper  bulge  of  the  jaw 
bones  with  a  disfiguring  growth  of  reddish 
whiskers  and  inclosed  at  the  temples  by  shaggy, 
unkempt  strands  of  red  hair  which  protruded 
from  beneath  the  black  hat.  Evidently  the 
man  had  not  been  shaved  for  weeks;  certainly 
his  hair  needed  trimming  and  combing.  But 
what  at  the  moment  impressed  Waggoner  more 
even  than  the  general  unkemptness  of  the 
stranger's  aspect  was  the  look  out  of  his  eyes. 
They  were  widespread  eyes  and  bloodshot  as 
though  from  lack  of  sleep,  and  they  glared  into 
Waggoner's  with  a  peculiar,  strained,  heark 
ening  expression.  There  was  agony  in  them — 
misery  unutterable. 

Thrusting  his  head  forward  then,  the  stranger 
cried  out,  and  his  voice,  which  in  his  first  words 
was  deep  and  musical,  suddenly,  before  he  had 
uttered  a  full  sentence,  turned  to  a  sharp,  half- 
hysterical  falsetto: 

"Why  don't  you  say  something  to  me,  man?" 
he  cried  at  the  startled  Waggoner.  "For  God's 
sake,  why  don't  you  speak  to  me?  Even  if 
you  do  know  me,  why  don't  you  speak?  Why 
don't  you  call  me  by  my  name?  I  can't  stand 
T93] 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

it — I  can't  stand  it  any  longer,  I  tell  you. 
You've  got  to  speak." 

Astounded,  Waggoner  strove  to  answer. 
But,  because  he  was  startled  and  a  bit  ap 
prehensive  as  well,  his  throat  locked  down  on 
his  faulty  vocal  cords.  His  face  moved  and 
his  lips  twisted  convulsively,  but  no  sound 
issued  from  his  mouth. 

The  stranger,  glaring  into  Waggoner's  face 
with  those  two  goggling  eyes  of  his,  which  were 
all  eyeballs,  threw  up  both  arms  at  full  length 
and  gave  a  great  gagging  outcry. 

"It's  come!"  he  shrieked;  "it's  come!  The 
silence  has  done  it  at  last.  It  deafens  me — I'm 
deaf !  I  can't  hear  you !  I  can't  hear  you ! " 

He  turned  and  ran  south — toward  the  river — 
and  Waggoner,  recovering  himself,  ran  after 
him  full  bent.  It  was  a  strangely  silent 
race  these  two  ran  through  the  empty  little 
street,  for  in  the  half-melted  snow  their  feet 
made  no  sounds  at  all.  Waggoner,  for  obvious 
reasons,  could  utter  no  words;  the  other  man 
did  not. 

A  scant  ten  feet  in  the  lead  the  fugitive 
reached  the  high  clay  bank  of  the  river.  With 
out  a  backward  glance  at  his  pursuer,  without 
checking  his  speed,  he  went  off  and  over  the 
edge  and  down  out  of  sight  into  the  darkness. 
Even  at  the  end  of  the  twenty -foot  plunge  the 
body  in  striking  made  almost  no  sound  at  all, 
for,  as  Waggoner  afterward  figured,  it  must  have 
struck  against  a  mass  of  shore  ice,  then  instantly 


THE      THUNDERS      OF      SILENCE 

to  slide  off,  with  scarcely  a  splash,  into  the 
roiled  yellow  waters  beyond. 

The  policeman  checked  his  own  speed  barely 
in  time  to  save  himself  from  following  over  the 
brink.  He  crouched  on  the  verge  of  the  frozen 
clay  bluff,  peering  downward  into  the  blackness 
and  the  quiet.  He  saw  nothing  and  he  heard 
nothing  except  his  own  laboured  breathing. 

The  body  was  never  recovered.  But  at 
daylight  a  black  soft  hat  was  found  on  a  half- 
rotted  ice  floe,  where  it  had  lodged  close  up 
against  the  bank.  A  name  was  stamped  in  the 
sweatband,  and  by  this  the  identity  of  the 
suicide  was  established  as  that  of  Congressman 
Jason  Mallard. 


[95] 


CHAPTER  III 
BOYS   WILL    BE    BOYS 


WHEN  Judge  Priest,  on  this  par 
ticular  morning,  came  puffing 
into  his  chambers  at  the  court 
house,  looking,  with  his  broad 
beam  and  in  his  costume  of  flappy,  loose  white 
ducks,  a  good  deal  like  an  old-fashioned  full- 
rigger  with  all  sails  set,  his  black  shadow,  Jeff 
Poindexter,  had  already  finished  the  job  of 
putting  the  quarters  to  rights  for  the  day. 
The  cedar  water  bucket  had  been  properly 
replenished ;  the  upper  flange  of  a  fifteen-cent 
chunk  of  ice  protruded  above  the  rim  of  the 
bucket;  and  alongside,  on  the  appointed  nail, 
hung  the  gourd  dipper  that  the  master  always 
used.  The  floor  had  been  swept,  except,  of 
course,  in  the  corners  and  underneath  things; 
there  were  evidences,  in  streaky  scrolls  of  fine 
grit  particles  upon  various  flat  surfaces,  that  a 
dusting  brush  had  been  more  or  less  sparingly 
employed.  A  spray  of  trumpet  flowers,  plucked 
from  the  vine  that  grew  outside  the  window, 
had  been  draped  over  the  framed  steel  engrav- 

" 


BOYS      WILL      BE      BOYS 


ing  of  President  Davis  and  his  Cabinet  upon 
the  wall;  and  on  the  top  of  the  big  square  desk 
in  the  middle  of  the  room,  where  a  small  section 
of  cleared  green-blotter  space  formed  an  oasis 
in  a  dry  and  arid  desert  of  cluttered  law  journals 
and  dusty  documents,  the  morning's  mail 
rested  in  a  little  heap. 

Having  placed  his  old  cotton  umbrella  in  a 
corner,  having  removed  his  coat  and  hung  it 
upon  a  peg  behind  the  hall  door,  and  having 
seen  to  it  that  a  palm-leaf  fan  was  in  arm's 
reach  should  he  require  it,  the  Judge,  in  his 
billowy  white  shirt,  sat  down  at  his  desk  and 
gave  his  attention  to  his  letters.  There  was 
an  invitation  from  the  Hylan  B.  Gracey  Camp 
of  Confederate  Veterans  of  Eddyburg,  asking 
him  to  deliver  the  chief  oration  at  the  annual 
reunion,  to  be  held  at  Mineral  Springs  on  the 
twelfth  day  of  the  following  month;  an  official 
notice  from  the  clerk  of  the  Court  of  Appeals 
concerning  the  affirmation  of  a  judgment  that 
had  been  handed  down  by  Judge  Priest  at  the 
preceding  term  of  his  own  court;  a  bill  for  five 
pounds  of  a  special  brand  of  smoking  tobacco; 
a  notice  of  a  lodge  meeting — altogether  quite 
a  sizable  batch  of  mail. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  pile  he  came  upon  a 
long  envelope  addressed  to  him  by  his  title, 
instead  of  by  his  name,  and  bearing  on  its 
upper  right-hand  corner  several  foreign-looking 
stamps;  they  were  British  stamps,  he  saw,  on 
closer  examination. 

__      


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

To  the  best  of  his  recollection  it  had  been  a 
good  long  time  since  Judge  Priest  had  had  a 
communication  by  post  from  overseas.  He 
adjusted  his  steel-bowed  spectacles,  ripped  the 
wrapper  with  care  and  shook  out  the  contents. 
There  appeared  to  be  several  inclosures;  in 
fact,  there  were  several — a  sheaf  of  printed 
forms,  a  document  with  seals  attached,  and  a 
letter  that  covered  two  sheets  of  paper  with 
typewritten  lines.  To  the  letter  the  recipient 
gave  consideration  first.  Before  he  reached 
the  end  of  the  opening  paragraph  he  uttered  a 
profound  grunt  of  surprise;  his  reading  of  the 
rest  was  frequently  punctuated  by  small 
exclamations,  his  face  meantime  puckering  up 
in  interested  lines.  At  the  conclusion,  when 
he  came  to  the  signature,  he  indulged  himself 
in  a  soft  low  whistle.  He  read  the  letter  all 
through  again,  and  after  that  he  examined  the 
forms  and  the  document  which  had  accom 
panied  it. 

Chuckling  under  his  breath,  he  wriggled 
himself  free  from  the  snug  embrace  of  his 
chair  arms  and  waddled  out  of  his  own  office  and 
down  the  long  bare  empty  hall  to  the  office  of 
Sheriff  Giles  Birdsong.  Within,  that  com 
petent  functionary,  Deputy  Sheriff  Breck 
Quarles,  sat  at  ease  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  engaged, 
with  the  smaller  blade  of  his  pocketknife,  in 
performing  upon  his  finger  nails  an  operation 
that  combined  the  fine  deftness  of  the  manicure 
with  the  less  delicate  art  of  the  farrier.  At  the 
" ~ [98]  


BOYS      WILL      BE      BOYS 


sight  of  the  Judge  in  the  open  doorway  he 
hastily  withdrew  from  a  tabletop,  where  they 
rested,  a  pair  of  long  thin  legs,  and  rose. 

"Mornin',  Breck,"  said  Judge  Priest  to  the 
other's  salutation.  "No,  thank  you,  son,  I 
won't  come  in;  but  I've  got  a  little  job  fur  you. 
I  wisht,  ef  you  ain't  too  busy,  that  you'd  step 
down  the  street  and  see  ef  you  can't  find  Peep 
O'Day  fur  me  and  fetch  him  back  here  with 
you.  It  won't  take  you  long,  will  it?" 

"No,  suh — not  very."  Mr.  Quarles  reached 
for  his  hat  and  snuggled  his  shoulder  holster 
back  inside  his  unbuttoned  waistcoat.  "He'll 
most  likely  be  down  round  Gafford's  stable. 
Whut's  Old  Peep  been  doin',  Judge — gettin' 
himself  in  contempt  of  court  or  somethin'?" 
He  grinned,  asking  the  question  with  the  air 
of  one  making  a  little  joke. 

"No,"  vouchsafed  the  Judge;  "he  ain't 
done  nothin'.  But  he's  about  to  have  somethin' 
of  a  highly  onusual  nature  done  to  him.  You 
jest  tell  him  I'm  wishful  to  see  him  right 
away — that'll  be  sufficient,  I  reckin." 

Without  making  further  explanation,  Judge 
Priest  returned  to  his  chambers  and  for  the 
third  time  read  the  letter  from  foreign  parts. 
Court  was  not  in  session,  and  the  hour  was 
early  and  the  weather  was  hot;  nobody  inter 
rupted  him.  Perhaps  fifteen  minutes  passed. 
Mr.  Quarles  poked  his  head  in  at  the  door. 

"I    found    him,    suh,"    the    deputy    stated. 

"He's  outside  here  in  the  hall." 

__ 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

"Much  obliged  to  you,  son,"  said  Judge 
Priest.  "Send  him  on  in,  will  you,  please?" 

The  head  was  withdrawn;  its  owner  lingered 
out  of  sight  of  His  Honour,  but  within  earshot. 
It  was  hard  to  figure  the  presiding  judge  of 
the  First  Judicial  District  of  the  state  of 
Kentucky  as  having  business  with  Peep  O'Day; 
and,  though  Mr.  Quarles  was  no  eavesdropper, 
still  he  felt  a  pardonable  curiosity  in  what 
soever  might  transpire.  As  he  feigned  an 
absorbed  interest  in  a  tax  notice,  which  was 
pasted  on  a  blackboard  just  outside  the  office 
door,  there  entered  the  presence  of  the  Judge 
a  man  who  seemingly  was  but  a  few  years 
younger  than  the  Judge  himself — a  man  who 
looked  to  be  somewhere  between  sixty -five  and 
seventy.  There  is  a  look  that  you  may  have 
seen  in  the  eyes  of  ownerless  but  well-inten 
tioned  dogs — dogs  that,  expecting  kicks  as 
their  daily  portion,  are  humbly  grateful  for 
kind  words  and  stray  bones;  dogs  that  are 
fairly  yearning  to  be  adopted  by  somebody — 
by  anybody — being  prepared  to  give  to  such  a 
benefactor  a  most  faithful  doglike  devotion 
in  return. 

This  look,  which  is  fairly  common  among 
masterless  and  homeless  dogs,  is  rare  among 
humans;  still,  once  in  a  while  you  do  find  it 
there  too.  The  man  who  now  timidly  shuffled 
himself  across  the  threshold  of  Judge  Priest's 
office  had  such  a  look  out  of  his  eyes.  He  had 
a  long,  simple  face,  partly  inclosed  in  grey 
[100] 


BOYS      WILL      BE      BOYS 


whiskers.  Four  dollars  would  have  been  a 
sufficient  price  to  pay  for  the  garments  he 
stood  in,  including  the  wrecked  hat  he  held  in 
his  hands  and  the  broken,  misshaped  shoes  on 
his  feet.  A  purchaser  who  gave  more  than 
four  dollars  for  the  whole  in  its  present  state  of 
decrepitude  would  have  been  but  a  poor  hand 
at  bargaining. 

The  man  who  wore  this  outfit  coughed  in  an 
embarrassed  fashion  and  halted,  fumbling  his 
ruinous  hat  in  his  hands. 

"Howdy  do?"  said  Judge  Priest  heartily, 
"Come  in!"  ; 

The  other  diffidently  advanced '  himself  a 
yard  or  two. 

"Excuse  me,  suh,"  he  said  apologetically; 
"but  this  here  Breck  Quarles  he  come  after  me 
and  he  said  ez  how  you  wanted  to  see  me. 
'Twas  him  ez  brung  me  here,  suh." 

Faintly  underlying  the  drawl  of  the  speaker 
was  just  a  suspicion — a  mere  trace,  as  you 
might  say — of  a  labial  softness  that  belongs 
solely  and  exclusively  to  the  children,  and  in  a 
diminishing  degree  to  the  grandchildren,  of 
native-born  sons  and  daughters  of  a  certain 
small  green  isle  in  the  sea.  It  was  not  so  much 
a  suggestion  of  a  brogue  as  it  was  the  suggestion 
of  the  ghost  of  a  brogue;  a  brogue  almost 
extinguished,  almost  obliterated,  and  yet  per 
sisting  through  the  generations — South  of  Ire 
land  struggling  beneath  south  of  Mason  and 
Dixon's  Line. 

__ 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

"Yes,"  said  the  Judge;  "that's  right.  I  do 
want  to  see  you."  The  tone  was  one  that  he 
might  employ  in  addressing  a  bashful  child. 
"Set  down  there  and  make  yourself  at  home." 

The  newcomer  obeyed  to  the  extent  of  perch 
ing  himself  on  the  extreme  forward  edge  of  a 
chair.  His  feet  shuffled  uneasily  where  they 
were  drawn  up  against  the  cross  rung  of  the 
chair. 

The  Judge  reared  well  back,  studying  his 
visitor  p^er  the  tops  of  his  glasses  with  rather  a 
quizzical  look.  In  one  hand  he  balanced  the 
large  envelope  which  had  come  to  him  that 
morning/ 

"Seems  to  me  I  heared  somewheres,  years 
back,  that  your  regular  Christian  name  was 
Paul — is  that  right?"  he  asked. 

"Shorely  is,  suh,"  assented  the  ragged  man, 
surprised  and  plainly  grateful  that  one  holding 
a  supremely  high  position  in  the  community 
should  vouchsafe  to  remember  a  fact  relating 
to  so  inconsequent  an  atom  as  himself.  "But 
I  ain't  heared  it  fur  so  long  I  come  mighty 
nigh  furgittin'  it  sometimes,  myself.  You  see, 
Judge  Priest,  when  I  wasn't  nothin'  but  jest  a 
shaver  folks  started  in  to  callin'  me  Peep — 
on  account  of  my  last  name  bein'  O'Day,  I 
reckin.  They  been  callin'  me  so  ever  since. 
Fust  off,  'twas  Little  Peep,  and  then  jest  plain 
Peep;  and  now  it's  got  to  be  Old  Peep.  But 
my  real  entitled  name  is  Paul,  jest  like  you 
said,  Judge— Paul  Felix  O'Day." 


BOYS      WILL     BE      BOYS 


"Uh-huh!  And  wasn't  your  father's  name 
Philip  and  your  mother's  name  Katherine 
Dwyer  O'Day?" 

"To  the  best  of  my  recollection  that's  partly 
so,  too,  suh.  They  both  of  'em  up  and  died 
when  I  was  a  baby,  long  before  I  could  remem 
ber  anything  a-tall.  But  they  always  told  me 
my  paw's  name  was  Phil,  or  Philip.  Only 
my  maw's  name  wasn't  Kath — Kath — wasn't 
whut  you  jest  now  called  it,  Judge.  It  was 
plain  Kate." 

"Kate  or  Katherine — it  makes  no  great 
difference,"  explained  Judge  Priest.  "Ireckin 
the  record  is  straight  this  fur.  And  now  think 
hard  and  see  ef  you  kin  ever  remember  hearin' 
of  an  uncle  named  Daniel  O'Day — your  father's 
brother." 

The  answer  was  a  shake  of  the  tousled 
head. 

"I  don't  know  nothin'  about  my  people.  I 
only  jest  know  they  come  over  from  some  place 
with  a  funny  name  in  the  Old  Country  before 
I  was  born.  The  onliest  kin  I  ever  had  over 
here  was  that  there  no-'count  triflin'  nephew  of 
mine — Perce  Dwyer — him  that  uster  hang 
round  this  town.  I  reckin  you  call  him  to 
mind,  Judge?" 

The  old  Judge  nodded  before  continuing: 

"All  the  same,  I  reckin  there  ain't  no  manner 
of  doubt  but  whut  you  had  an  uncle  of  the 
name  of  Daniel.  All  the  evidences  would 
seem  to  p'int  that  way.  Accordin'  to  the 
"~~™"~ ""  [103] 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

proofs,  this  here  Uncle  Daniel  of  yours  lived 
in  a  little  town  called  Kilmare,  in  Ireland." 
He  glanced  at  one  of  the  papers  that  lay  on 
his  desktop;  then  added  in  a  casual  tone: 
"Tell  me,  Peep,  whut  are  you  doin'  now  fur  a 
livin'?" 

The  object  of  this  examination  grinned  a 
faint  grin  of  extenuation. 

"Well,  suh,  I'm  knockin'  about,  doin'  the 
best  I  kin — which  ain't  much.  I  help  out 
round  Gafford's  liver'  stable,  and  Pete  Gafford 
he  lets  me  sleep  in  a  little  room  behind  the  feed 
room,  and  his  wife  she  gives  me  my  vittles. 
Oncet  in  a  while  I  git  a  chancet  to  do  odd  jobs 
fur  folks  round  town — cuttin'  weeds  and 
splittin'  stove  wood  and  packin'  in  coal,  and 
sech  ez  that." 

"Not  much  money  in  it,  is  there?" 

"No,  suh;  not  much.  Folks  is  more  prone 
to  offer  me  old  clothes  than  they  are  to  pay  me 
in  cash.  Still,  I  manage  to  git  along.  I  don't 
live  very  fancy;  but,  then,  I  don't  starve,  and 
that's  more'n  some  kin  say." 

"Peep,  whut  was  the  most  money  you  ever 
had  in  your  life — at  one  time?" 

Peep  scratched  with  a  freckled  hand  at  his 
thatch  of  faded  whitish  hair  to  stimulate 
recollection. 

"I  reckin  not  more'n  six  bits  at  any  one  time, 
suh.  Seems  like  I've  sorter  got  the  knack  of 
livin'  without  money." 

"Well,  Peep,  sech  bein'  the  case,  whut  would 
[104] 


BOYS      WILL     BE      BOYS 


you  say  ef  I  was  to  tell  you  that  you're  a  rich 
man?" 

The  answer  came  slowly. 

"I  reckin,  suh,  ef  it  didn't  sound  disrespect 
ful,  I'd  say  you  was  prankin'  with  me — makin' 
fun  of  me,  suh." 

Judge  Priest  bent  forward  in  his  chair. 

"I'm  not  prankin'  with  you.  It's  my 
pleasant  duty  to  inform  you  that  at  this 
moment  you  are  the  rightful  owner  of  eight 
thousand  pounds." 

"Pounds  of  whut,  Judge?"  The  tone  ex 
pressed  a  heavy  incredulity. 

"Why,  pounds  in  money." 

Outside,  in  the  hall,  with  one  ear  held  con 
veniently  near  the  crack  in  the  door,  Deputy 
Sheriff  Quarles  gave  a  violent  start;  and  then, 
at  once,  was  torn  between  a  desire  to  stay  and 
hear  more  and  an  urge  to  hurry  forth  and 
spread  the  unbelievable  tidings.  After  the 
briefest  of  struggles  the  latter  inclination  won; 
this  news  was  too  marvellously  good  to  keep; 
surely  a  harbinger  and  a  herald  was  needed  to 
spread  it  broadcast. 

Mr.  Quarles  tiptoed  rapidly  down  the  hall. 
When  he  reached  the  sidewalk  the  volunteer 
bearer  of  a  miraculous  tale  fairly  ran.  As  for 
the  man  who  sat  facing  the  Judge,  he  merely 
stared  in  a  dull  bewilderment. 

"Judge,"  he  said  at  length,  "eight  thousand 
pounds  of  money  oughter  make  a  powerful  big 

pile,  oughten  it?" 

__  _ 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

"It  wouldn't  weigh  quite  that  much  ef  you 
put  it  on  the  scales,"  explained  His  Honour 
painstakingly.  "I  mean  pounds  sterlin' — 
English  money.  Near  ez  I  kin  figger  offhand, 
it  comes  in  our  money  to  somewheres  between 
thirty-five  and  forty  thousand  dollars — nearer 
forty  than  thirty -five.  And  it's  all  yours, 
Peep — every  red  cent  of  it." 

"Excuse  me,  suh,  and  not  meanin'  to  con 
tradict  you,  or  nothin'  like  that;  but  I  reckin 
there  must  be  some  mistake.  Why,  Judge,  I 
don't  scursely  know  anybody  that's  ez  wealthy 
ez  all  that,  let  alone  anybody  that'd  give  me 
sech  a  lot  of  money." 

"Listen,  Peep:  This  here  letter  I'm  holdin' 
in  my  hand  came  to  me  by  to-day's  mail — jest  a 
little  spell  ago.  It's  frum  Ireland — frum  the 
town  of  Kilmare,  where  your  people  came 
frum.  It  was  sent  to  me  by  a  firm  of  barristers 
in  that  town — lawyers  we'd  call  'em.  In  this 
letter  they  ask  me  to  find  you  and  to  tell  you 
whut's  happened.  It  seems,  frum  whut  they 
write,  that  your  uncle,  by  name  Daniel  O'Day, 
died  not  very  long  ago  without  issue — that  is  to 
say,  without  leavin'  any  children  of  his  own, 
and  without  makin'  any  will. 

"It  appears  he  had  eight  thousand  pounds 
saved  up.  Ever  since  he  died  those  lawyers 
and  some  other  folks  over  there  in  Ireland 
have  been  tryin'  to  find  out  who  that  money 
should  go  to.  They  learnt  in  some  way  that 
your  father  and  your  mother  settled  in  this 
[  106  ]  


BOYS      WILL     BE      BOYS 


town  a  mighty  long  time  ago,  and  that  they 
died  here  and  left  one  son,  which  is  you.  All 
the  rest  of  the  family  over  there  in  Ireland 
have  already  died  out,  it  seems;  that  natchelly 
makes  you  the  next  of  kin  and  the  heir  at  law, 
which  means  that  all  your  uncle's  money 
comes  direct  to  you. 

"So,  Peep,  you're  a  wealthy  man  in  your 
own  name.  That's  the  news  I  had  to  tell  you. 
Allow  me  to  congratulate  you  on  your  good 
fortune." 

The  beneficiary  rose  to  his  feet,  seeming  not 
to  see  the  hand  the  old  Judge  had  extended 
across  the  desktop  toward  him.  On  his  face, 
of  a  sudden,  was  a  queer,  eager  look.  It  was  as 
though  he  foresaw  the  coming  true  of  long- 
cherished  and  heretofore  unattainable  visions. 

"Have  you  got  it  here,  suh?" 

He  glanced  about  him  as  though  expecting 
to  see  a  bulky  bundle.  Judge  Priest  smiled. 

"Oh,  no;  they  didn't  send  it  along  with  the 
letter — that  wouldn't  be  regular.  There's  quite 
a  lot  of  things  to  be  done  fust.  There'll  be 
some  proofs  to  be  got  up  and  sworn  to  before  a 
man  called  a  British  consul;  and  likely  there'll 
be  a  lot  of  papers  that  you'll  have  to  sign;  and 
then  all  the  papers  and  the  proofs  and  things 
will  be  sent  acrost  the  ocean.  And,  after  some 
fees  are  paid  out  over  there — why,  then  you'll 
git  your  inheritance." 

The  rapt  look  faded  from  the  strained  face, 
leaving  it  downcast.  "I'm  af eared,  then,  I 
" [107] 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

won't  be  able  to  claim  that  there  money,"  he 
said  forlornly. 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  I  don't  know  how  to  sign  my  own 
name.  Raised  the  way  I  was,  I  never  got  no 
book  learnin'.  I  can't  neither  read  nor  write." 

Compassion  shadowed  the  Judge's  chubby 
face;  and  compassion  was  in  his  voice  as  he 
made  answer: 

"You  don't  need  to  worry  about  that  part 
of  it.  You  can  make  your  mark — just  a  cross 
mark  on  the  paper,  with  witnesses  present — 
like  this." 

He  took  up  a  pen,  dipped  it  in  the  ink-well 
and  illustrated  his  meaning. 

"Yes,  suh;  I'm  glad  it  kin  be  done  thataway. 
I  always  wisht  I  knowed  how  to  read  big  print 
and  spell  my  own  name  out.  I  ast  a  feller 
oncet  to  write  my  name  out  fur  me  in  plain 
letters  on  a  piece  of  paper.  I  was  aimin*  to 
learn  to  copy  it  off;  but  I  showed  it  to  one  of 
the  hands  at  the  liver'  stable  and  he  busted 
out  laughin'.  And  then  I  come  to  find  out 
this  here  feller  had  tricked  me  fur  to  make 
game  of  me.  He  hadn't  wrote  my  name  out 
a-tall — he'd  wrote  some  dirty  words  instid. 
So  after  that  I  give  up  tryin'  to  educate  myself. 
That  was  several  years  back  and  I  ain't  tried 
sence.  Now  I  reckin  I'm  too  old  to  learn. 
...  I  wonder,  suh — I  wonder  ef  it'll  be  very 
long  before  that  there  money  gits  here  and  I 

begin  to  have  the  spendin'  of  it?" 

[108]  " 


BOYS      WILL      BE      BOYS 


"Makin'  plans  already?" 

"Yes,  suh,"  O'Day  answered  truthfully;  "I 
am."  He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  his  eyes 
on  the  floor;  then  timidly  he  advanced  the 
thought  that  had  come  to  him:  "I  reckin,  suh, 
it  wouldn't  be  no  more'n  fair  and  proper  ef  I 
divided  my  money  with  you  to  pay  you  back 
fur  all  this  trouble  you're  fixin'  to  take  on  my 
account.  Would — would  half  of  it  be  enough? 
The  other  half  oughter  last  me  fur  whut  uses 
I'll  make  of  it." 

"I  know  you  mean  well  and  I'm  much 
obliged  to  you  fur  your  offer,"  stated  Judge 
Priest,  smiling  a  little;  "but  , it  wouldn't  be 
fittin'  or  proper  fur  me  to  tech  a  cent  of  your 
money.  There'll  be  some  court  dues  and  some 
lawyers'  fees,  and  sech,  to  pay  over  there  in 
Ireland;  but  after  that's  settled  up  everything 
comes  direct  to  you.  It's  goin'  to  be  a  pleasure 
to  me  to  help  you  arrange  these  here  details 
that  you  don't  understand — a  pleasure  and  not 
a  burden." 

He  considered  the  figure  before  him. 

"Now  here's  another  thing,  Peep:  I  judge  it's 
hardly  fittin'  fur  a  man  of  substance  to  go  on 
livin'  the  way  you've  had  to  live  durin'  your 
life.  Ef  you  don't  mind  my  offerin'  you  a  little 
advice  I  would  suggest  that  you  go  right  down 
to  Felsburg  Brothers  when  you  leave  here  and 
git  yourself  fitted  out  with  some  suitable 
clothin'.  And  you'd  better  go  to  Max  Bieder- 
man's,  too,  and  order  a  better  pair  of  shoes  fur 
[109]  


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

yourself  than  them  you've  got  on.  Tell  'em  I 
sent  you  and  that  I  guarantee  the  payment  of 
your  bills.  Though  I  reckin  that'll  hardly  be 
necessary — when  the  news  of  your  good  luck 
gits  noised  round  I  misdoubt  whether  there's 
any  firm  in  our  entire  city  that  wouldn't  be  glad 
to  have  you  on  their  books  fur  a  stiddy  cus 
tomer. 

"And,  also,  ef  I  was  you  I'd  arrange  to  git  me 
regular  board  and  lodgin's  somewheres  round 
town.  You  see,  Peep,  comin'  into  a  property 
entails  consider'ble  many  responsibilities  right 
frum  the  start." 

"Yes,  suh,"  assented  the  legatee  obediently. 
"I'll  do  jest  ez  you  say,  Judge  Priest,  about  the 
clothes  and  the  shoes,  and  all  that;  but — but,  ef 
you  don't  mind,  I'd  like  to  go  on  livin'  at  Gaf- 
ford's.  Pete  Gafford's  been  mighty  good  to  me — 
him  and  his  wife  both;  and  I  wouldn't  like  fur 
'em  to  think  I  was  gittin'  stuck  up  jest  because 
I've  had  this  here  streak  of  luck  come  to  me. 
Mebbe,  seein'  ez  how  things  has  changed  with 
me,  they'd  be  willin'  to  take  me  in  fur  a  table 
boarder  at  their  house;  but  I  shorely  would 
hate  to  give  up  livin'  in  that  there  little  room 
behind  the  feed  room  at  the  liver'  stable.  I 
don't  know  ez  I  could  ever  find  any  place  that 
would  seem  ez  homelike  to  me  ez  whut  it  is." 

"Suit  yourself  about  that,"  said  Judge  Priest 
heartily.  "I  don't  know  but  whut  you've  got 
the  proper  notion  about  it  after  all." 

"Yes,  suh.  Them  Gaffords  have  been  purty 
[no] 


BOYS      WILL      BE      BOYS 


nigh  the  only  real  true  friends  I  ever  had  that 
I  could  count  on."  He  hesitated  a  moment. 
"I  reckin — I  reckin,  suh,  it'll  be  a  right  smart 
while,  won't  it,  before  that  money  gits  here 
frum  all  the  way  acrost  the  ocean?" 

"Why,  yes;  I  imagine  it  will.  Was  you 
figurin'  on  investin'  a  little  of  it  now?" 

"Yes,  suh;  I  was." 

"About  how  much  did  you  think  of  spendin' 
fur  a  beginnin'?" 

O'Day  squinted  his  eyes,  his  lips  moving  in 
silent  calculation. 

"Well,  suh,"  he  said  at  length,  "I  could  use  ez 
much  ez  a  silver  dollar.  But,  of  course, 
sence " 

"That  sounds  kind  of  moderate  to  me," 
broke  in  Judge  Priest.  He  shoved  a  pudgy 
hand  into  a  pocket  of  his  white  trousers.  "I 
reckin  this  detail  kin  be  arranged.  Here, 
Peep" — he  extended  his  hand — "here's  your 
dollar."  Then,  as  the  other  drew  back,  stam 
mering  a  refusal,  he  hastily  added:  "No,  no,  no; 
go  ahead  and  take  it — it's  yours.  I'm  jest 
advancin'  it  to  you  out  of  whut'll  be  comin'  to 
you  shortly. 

"I'll  tell  you  whut:  Until  sech  time  ez  you 
are  in  position  to  draw  on  your  own  funds  you 
jest  drap  in  here  to  see  me  when  you're  in  need 
of  cash,  and  I'll  try  to  let  you  have  whut  you 
require — in  reason.  I'll  keep  a  proper  reckinin* 
of  whut  you  git  and  you  kin  pay  me  back  ez 
soon  ez  your  inheritance  is  put  into  your  hands. 

_  __ 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

"One  thing  more,"  he  added  as  the  heir, 
having  thanked  him,  was  making  his  grateful 
adieu  at  the  threshold:  "Now  that  you're 
wealthy,  or  about  to  be  so,  I  kind  of  imagine 
quite  a  passel  of  fellers  will  suddenly  discover 
themselves  strangely  and  affectionately  drawed 
toward  you.  You're  liable  to  find  out  you've 
always  had  more  true  and  devoted  friends  in 
this  community  than  whut  you  ever  imagined 
to  be  the  case  before. 

"Now  friendship  is  a  mighty  fine  thing, 
takin'  it  by  and  large;  but  it  kin  be  overdone. 
It's  barely  possible  that  some  of  this  here  new 
crop  of  your  well-wishers  and  admirers  will  be 
makin'  little  business  propositions  to  you — 
desirin'  to  have  you  go  partners  with  'em  in 
business,  or  to  sell  you  desirable  pieces  of  real 
estate;  or  even  to  let  you  loan  'em  various  sums 
of  money.  I  wouldn't  be  surprised  but  whut 
a  number  of  sech  chances  will  be  comin'  your 
way  durin'  the  next  few  days,  and  frum  then  on. 
Ef  sech  should  be  the  case  I  would  suggest  to 
you  that,  before  committin'  yourself  to  any 
body  or  anything,  you  tell  'em  that  I'm  sort  of 
actin'  as  your  unofficial  adviser  in  money 
matters,  and  that  they  should  come  to  me  and 
outline  their  little  schemes  in  person.  Do  you 
git  my  general  drift?" 

"Yes,  suh,"  said  Peep.  "I  won't  furgit; 
and  thank  you  ag'in,  Judge,  specially  fur  lettin' 
me  have  this  dollar  ahead  of  time." 

He  shambled  out  with  the  coin  in  his  hand; 

[112]       


BOYS      WILL      BE      BOYS 


and  on  his  face  was  again  the  look  of  one  who 
sees  before  him  the  immediate  fulfillment  of  a 
delectable  dream. 

With  lines  of  sympathy  and  amusement 
crisscrossing  at  the  outer  corners  of  his  eyelids, 
Judge  Priest,  rising  and  stepping  to  his  door, 
watched  the  retreating  figure  of  the  town's 
newest  and  strangest  capitalist  disappear  down 
the  wide  front  steps  of  the  courthouse. 

Presently  he  went  back  to  his  chair  and  sat 
down,  tugging  at  his  short  chin  beard. 

"I  wonder,  now,"  said  he,  meditatively 
addressing  the  emptiness  of  the  room,  "I 
wonder  whut  a  man  sixty-odd-year  old  is  goin' 
to  do  with  the  fust  whole  dollar  he  ever  had  in 
his  life!" 

It  was  characteristic  of  our  circuit  judge  that 
he  should  have  voiced  his  curiosity  aloud. 
Talking  to  himself  when  he  was  alone  was  one 
of  his  habits.  Also,  it  was  characteristic  of 
him  that  he  had  refrained  from  betraying  his 
inquisitiveness  to  his  late  caller.  Similar  mo 
tives  of  delicacy  had  kept  him  from  following 
the  other  man  to  watch  the  sequence. 

However,  at  secondhand,  the  details  very 
shortly  reached  him.  They  were  brought  by  no 
less  a  person  than  Deputy  Sheriff  Quarles,  who, 
some  twenty  minutes  or  possibly  half  an  hour 
later,  obtruded  himself  upon  Judge  Priest's 
presence. 

"Judge,"  began  Mr.  Quarles,  "you'd  never 
in  the  world  guess  whut  Old  Peep  O'Day  done 
[US]  


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

with  the  first  piece  of  money  he  got  his  hands 
on  out  of  that  there  forty  thousand  pounds  of 
silver  dollars  he's  come  into  frum  his  uncle's 
estate." 

The  old  man  slanted  a  keen  glance  in  Mr. 
Quarles'  direction. 

"Tell  me,  son,"  he  asked  softly,  "how  did 
you  come  to  hear  the  glad  tidin's  so  promptly?" 

"Me?"  said  Mr.  Quarles  innocently.  "Why, 
Judge  Priest,  the  word  is  all  over  this  part  of 
town  by  this  time.  Why,  I  reckin  twenty-five 
or  fifty  people  must  'a'  been  watchin'  Old  Peep 
to  see  how  he  was  goin'  to  act  when  he  come  out 
of  this  courthouse." 

"Well,  well,  well!"  murmured  the  Judge 
blandly.  "Good  news  travels  almost  ez  fast 
sometimes  ez  whut  bad  news  does — don't  it, 
now?  Well,  son,  I  give  up  the  riddle.  Tell 
me  jest  whut  our  elderly  friend  did  do  with 
the  first  installment  of  his  inheritance." 

"Well,  suh,  he  turned  south  here  at  the  gate 
and  went  down  the  street,  a-lookin'  neither  to 
the  right  nor  the  left.  He  looked  to  me  like  a  man 
in  a  trance,  almost.  He  keeps  right  on  through 
Legal  Row  till  he  comes  to  Franklin  Street, 
and  then  he  goes  up  Franklin  to  B.  Weil  &  Son's 
confectionary  store;  and  there  he  turns  in. 
I  happened  to  be  folio  win'  'long  behind  him, 
with  a  few  others — with  several  others,  in  fact — 
and  we-all  sort  of  slowed  up  in  pas'sin'  and 
looked  in  at  the  door;  and  that's  how  I  come  to 
be  in  a  position  to  see  whut  happened. 


BOYS      WILL      BE      BOYS 


"Old  Peep,  lie  marches  in  jest  like  I'm  tellin' 
it  to  you,  suh;  and  Mr.  B.  Weil  comes  to  wait 
on  him,  and  he  starts  in  buy  in'.  He  buys  his- 
self  a  five-cent  bag  of  gumdrops;  and  a  five- 
cent  bag  of  jelly  beans;  and  a  ten-cent  bag  of 
mixed  candies — kisses  and  candy  mottoes,  and 
sech  ez  them,  you  know;  and  a  sack  of  fresh 
roasted  peanuts — a  big  sack,  it  was,  fifteen- 
cent  size;  and  two  prize  boxes;  and  some 
gingersnaps — ten  cents'  worth;  and  a  coconut; 
and  half  a  dozen  red  bananas;  and  half  a 
dozen  more  of  the  plain  yaller  ones.  Alto 
gether  I  figger  he  spent  a  even  dollar;  in  fact, 
I  seen  him  hand  Mr.  Weil  a  dollar,  and  I 
didn't  see  him  gittin'  no  change  back  out  of  it. 

"Then  he  comes  on  out  of  the  store,  with 
all  these  things  stuck  in  his  pockets  and  stacked 
up  in  his  arms  till  he  looks  sort  of  like  some 
new  kind  of  a  summertime  Santy  Klaws; 
and  he  sets  down  on  a  goods  box  at  the  edge 
of  the  pavement,  with  his  feet  in  the  gutter, 
and  starts  in  eatin'  all  them  things. 

"First,  he  takes  a  bite  off  a  yaller  banana 
and  then  off  a  red  banana,  and  then  a  mouthful 
of  peanuts;  and  then  maybe  some  mixed 
candies — not  sayin'  a  word  to  nobody,  but 
jest  natchelly  eatin'  his  fool  head  off.  A 
young  chap  that's  clerkin'  in  Bagby's  grocery, 
next  door,  steps  up  to  him  and  speaks  to  him, 
meanin',  I  suppose,  to  ast  him  is  it  true  he's 
wealthy.  And  Old  Peep  says  to  him,  'Please 
don't  come  botherin*  me  now,  sonny — I'm 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

busy  ketchin'  up,5  he  says;  and  keeps  right 
on  a-munchin'  and  a-chewin'  like  all  possessed. 

"That  ain't  all  of  it,  neither,  Judge — not  by 
a  long  shot  it  ain't!  Purty  soon  Old  Peep 
looks  round  him  at  the  little  crowd  that's 
gathered.  He  didn't  seem  to  pay  no  heed  to 
the  grown-up  people  standin'  there;  but  he 
sees  a  couple  of  boys  about  ten  years  old  in 
the  crowd,  and  he  beckons  to  them  to  come 
to  him,  and  he  makes  room  fur  them  alongside 
him  on  the  box  and  divides  up  his  knick-knacks 
with  them. 

"When  I  left  there  to  come  on  back  here  he 
had  no  less'n  six  kids  squatted  round  him, 
includin'  one  little  nigger  boy;  and  between 
'em  all  they'd  jest  finished  up  the  last  of  the 
bananas  and  peanuts  and  the  candy  and  the 
gingersnaps,  and  was  fixin'  to  take  turns 
drinkin'  the  milk  out  of  the  coconut.  I 
s'pose  they've  got  it  all  cracked  out  of  the 
shell  and  et  up  by  now — the  coconut,  I  mean. 
Judge,  you  oughter  stepped  down  into  Franklin 
Street  and  taken  a  look  at  the  picture  whilst 
there  was  still  time.  You  never  seen  sech  a 
funny  sight  in  all  your  days,  I'll  bet!" 

"I  reckin  'twould  be  too  late  to  be  startin' 
now,"  said  Judge  Priest.  "I'm  right  sorry  I 
missed  it.  ...  Busy  ketchin'  up,  huh?  Yes; 
I  reckin  he  is.  ...  Tell  me,  son,  whut  did 
you  make  out  of  the  way  Peep  O'Day  acted?" 

"Why,  suh,"  stated  Mr.  Quarles,  "to  my 
mind,  Judge,  there  ain't  no  manner  of  doubt 


BOYS      WILL     BE      BOYS 


but  whut  prosperity  has  went  to  his  head  and 
turned  it.  He  acted  to  me  like  a  plum'  dis 
tracted  idiot.  A  grown  man  with  forty  thou 
sand  pounds  of  solid  money  settin'  on  the  side 
of  a  gutter  eatin'  jimcracks  with  a  passel  of 
dirty  little  boys!  Kin  you  figure  it  out  any 
other  way,  Judge — except  that  his  mind  is 
gone?" 

"I  don't  set  myself  up  to  be  a  specialist  in 
mental  disorders,  son,"  said  Judge  Priest 
softly;  "but,  sence  you  ask  me  the  question,  I 
should  say,  speakin'  offhand,  that  it  looks  to 
me  more  ez  ef  the  heart  was  the  organ  that  was 
mainly  affected.  And  possibly" — he  added 
this  last  with  a  dry  little  smile — "and  possibly, 
by  now,  the  stomach  also." 

Whether  or  not  Mr.  Quarles  was  correct 
in  his  psychopathic  diagnosis,  he  certainly  had 
been  right  when  he  told  Judge  Priest  that  the 
word  was  already  all  over  the  business  district. 
It  had  spread  fast  and  was  still  spreading;  it 
spread  to  beat  the  wireless,  travelling  as  it 
did  by  that  mouth-to-ear  method  of  com 
munication  which  is  so  amazingly  swift  and 
generally  as  tremendously  incorrect.  Persons 
who  could  not  credit  the  tale  at  all,  neverthe 
less  lost  no  time  in  giving  to  it  a  yet  wider 
circulation;  so  that,  as  though  borne  on  the 
wind,  it  moved  in  every  direction,  like  ripples 
on  a  pond;  and  with  each  time  of  retelling  the 

size  of  the  legacy  grew. 

[717] 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

The  Daily  Evening  News,  appearing  on  the 
streets  at  5  P.  M.,  confirmed  the  tale;  though 
by  its  account  the  fortune  was  reduced  to  a 
sum  far  below  the  gorgeously  exaggerated 
estimates  of  most  of  the  earlier  narrators. 
Between  breakfast  and  supper-time  Peep 
O'Day's  position  in  the  common  estimation  of 
his  fellow  citizens  underwent  a  radical  and 
revolutionary  change.  He  ceased — auto 
matically,  as  it  were — to  be  a  town  character; 
he  became,  by  universal  consent,  a  town 
notable,  whose  every  act  and  every  word 
would  thereafter  be  subjected  to  close  scrutiny 
and  closer  analysis. 

The  next  morning  the  nation  at  large  had 
opportunity  to  know  of  the  great  good  fortune 
that  had  befallen  Paul  Felix  O'Day,  for  the 
story  had  been  wired  to  the  city  papers  by 
the  local  correspondents  of  the  same;  and  the 
press  associations  had  picked  up  a  stickful  of 
the  story  and  sped  it  broadcast  over  leased 
wires.  Many  who  until  that  day  had  never 
heard  of  the  fortunate  man,  or,  indeed,  of  the 
place  where  he  lived,  at  once  manifested  a 
concern  in  his  well-being. 

Certain  firms  of  investment  brokers  in  New 
York  and  Chicago  promptly  added  a  new 
name  to  what  vulgarly  they  called  their 
"sucker"  lists.  Dealers  in  mining  stocks,  in 
oil  stocks,  in  all  kinds  of  attractive  stocks, 
showed  interest;  in  circular  form  samples  of 
the  most  optimistic  and  alluring  literature  the 


BOYS      WILL     BE      BOYS 


world  has  ever  known  were  consigned  to  the 
post,  addressed  to  Mr.  P.  F.  O'Day,  such-and- 
such  a  town,  such-and-such  a  state,  care  of 
general  delivery. 

Various  lonesome  ladies  in  various  lone 
some  places  lost  no  time  in  sitting  themselves 
down  and  inditing  congratulatory  letters;  object 
matrimony.  Some  of  these  were  single  ladies; 
others  had  been  widowed,  either  by  death  or 
request.  Various  other  persons  of  both  sexes, 
residing  here,  there  and  elsewhere  in  our 
country,  suddenly  remembered  that  they,  too, 
were  descended  from  the  O'Days  of  Ireland, 
and  wrote  on  forthwith  to  claim  proud  and 
fond  relationship  with  the  particular  O'Day 
who  had  come  into  money. 

It  was  a  remarkable  circumstance,  which 
instantly  developed,  that  one  man  should 
have  so  many  distant  cousins  scattered  over 
the  Union,  and  a  thing  equally  noteworthy 
that  practically  all  these  kinspeople,  through 
no  fault  of  their  own,  should  at  the  present 
moment  be  in  such  straitened  circumstances 
and  in  such  dire  need  of  temporary  assistance 
of  a  financial  nature.  Ticker  and  printer's 
ink,  operating  in  conjunction,  certainly  did 
their  work  mighty  well;  even  so,  several  days 
were  to  elapse  before  the  news  reached  one 
who,  of  all  those  who  read  it,  had  most  cause 
to  feel  a  profound  personal  sensation  in  the 
intelligence. 

This    delay,    however,    was    nowise    to    be 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

blamed  upon  the  tardiness  of  the  newspapers; 
it  was  occasioned  by  the  fact  that  the  person 
referred  to  was  for  the  moment  well  out  of 
touch  with  the  active  currents  of  world  affairs, 
he  being  confined  in  a  workhouse  at  Evansville, 
Indiana. 

As  soon  as  he  had  rallied  from  the  shock  this 
individual  set  about  making  plans  to  put  him 
self  in  direct  touch  with  the  inheritor.  He 
had  ample  time  in  which  to  frame  and  shape  his 
campaign,  inasmuch  as  there  remained  for  him 
yet  to  serve  nearly  eight  long  and  painfully 
tedious  weeks  of  a  three-months'  vagrancy 
sentence.  Unlike  most  of  those  now  mani 
festing  their  interest,  he  did  not  write  a  letter; 
but  he  dreamed  dreams  that  made  him  forget 
the  annoyances  of  a  ball  and  chain  fast  on  his 
ankle  and  piles  of  stubborn  stones  to  be  cracked 
up  into  fine  bits  with  a  heavy  hammer. 

We  are  getting  ahead  of  our  narrative, 
though — days  ahead  of  it.  The  chronological 
sequence  of  events  properly  dates  from  the 
morning  following  the  morning  when  Peep 
O'Day,  having  been  abruptly  translated  from 
the  masses  of  the  penniless  to  the  classes  of  the 
wealthy,  had  forthwith  embarked  upon  the 
gastronomic  orgy  so  graphically  detailed  by 
Deputy  Sheriff  Quarles. 

On  that  next  day  more  eyes  probably  than 
had  been  trained  in  Peep  O'Day's  direction  in 
all  the  unremarked  and  unremarkable  days  of 

his  life  put  together  were  focused  upon  him. 

__ 


BOYS      WILL     BE      BOYS 


Persons  who  theretofore  had  regarded  his 
existence — if  indeed  they  gave  it  a  thought — 
as  one  of  the  utterly  trivial  and  inconsequential 
incidents  of  the  cosmic  scheme,  were  moved  to 
speak  to  him,  to  clasp  his  hand,  and,  in  nu 
merous  instances,  to  express  a  hearty  satisfaction 
over  his  altered  circumstances.  To  all  these, 
whether  they  were  moved  by  mere  neighbourly 
good  will,  or  perchance  were  inspired  by 
impulses  of  selfishness,  the  old  man  exhibited 
a  mien  of  aloofness  and  embarrassment. 

This  diffidence  or  this  suspicion — or  this 
whatever  it  was — protected  him  from  those 
who  might  entertain  covetous  and  ulterior 
designs  upon  his  inheritance  even  better  than 
though  he  had  been  brusque  and  rude;  while 
those  who  sought  to  question  him  regarding 
his  plans  for  the  future  drew  from  him  only 
mumbled  and  evasive  replies,  which  left  them 
as  deeply  in  the  dark  as  they  had  been  before. 
Altogether,  in  his  intercourse  with  adults  he 
appeared  shy  and  very  ill  at  ease. 

It  was  noted,  though,  that  early  in  the  fore 
noon  he  attached  to  him  perhaps  half  a  dozen 
urchins,  of  whom  the  oldest  could  scarcely 
have  been  more  than  twelve  or  thirteen  years 
of  age;  and  that  these  youngsters  remained 
his  companions  throughout  the  day.  Likewise 
the  events  of  that  day  were  such  as  to  confirm  a 
majority  of  the  observers  in  practically  the 
same  belief  that  had  been  voiced  by  Mr. 
Quarles — namely,  that  whatever  scanty  brains 

.  __ 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

Peep  O'Day  might  have  ever  had  were  now 
completely  ruined  by  the  stroke  of  luck  that 
had  befallen  him. 

In  fairness  to  all — to  O'Day  and  to  the  town 
critics  who  sat  in  judgment  upon  his  behaviour — 
it  should  be  stated  that  his  conduct  at  the  very 
outset  was  not  entirely  devoid  of  evidences  of 
sanity.  With  his  troupe  of  ragged  juveniles 
trailing  behind  him,  he  first  visited  Felsburg 
Brothers'  Emporium  to  exchange  his  old  and 
disreputable  costume  for  a  wardrobe  that,  in 
accordance  with  Judge  Priest's  recommen 
dation,  he  had  ordered  on  the  afternoon  pre 
vious,  and  which  had  since  been  undergoing 
certain  necessary  alterations. 

With  his  meagre  frame  incased  in  new  black 
woollens,  and  wearing,  as  an  incongruous  added 
touch,  the  most  brilliant  of  neckties,  a  necktie 
of  the  shade  of  a  pomegranate  blossom,  he 
presently  issued  from  Felsburg  Brothers'  and 
entered  M.  Biederman's  shoe  store,  two  doors 
below.  Here  Mr.  Biederman  fitted  him  with 
shoes,  and  in  addition  noted  down  a  further 
order,  which  the  purchaser  did  not  give  until 
after  he  had  conferred  earnestly  with  the  mem 
bers  of  his  youthful  entourage. 

Those  watching  this  scene  from  a  distance 
saw — and  perhaps  marvelled  at  the  sight — 
that  already,  between  these  small  boys,  on  the 
one  part,  and  this  old  man,  on  the  other,  a 
perfect  understanding  appeared  to  have  been 

established. 

__ 


BOYS      WILL      BE      BOYS 


After  leaving  Biederman's,  and  tagged  by 
his  small  escorts,  O'Day  went  straight  to  the 
courthouse  and,  upon  knocking  at  the  door, 
was  admitted  to  Judge  Priest's  private  cham 
bers,  the  boys  meantime  waiting  outside  in  the 
hall.  When  he  came  forth  he  showed  them 
something  he  held  in  his  hand  and  told  them 
something;  whereupon  all  of  them  burst  into 
excited  and  joyous  whoops. 

It  was  at  that  point  that  O'Day,  by  the 
common  verdict  of  most  grown-up  onlookers, 
began  to  betray  the  vagaries  of  a  disordered 
intellect.  Not  that  his  reason  had  not  been 
under  suspicion  already,  as  a  result  of  his 
freakish  excess  in  the  matter  of  B.  Weil  & 
Son's  wares  on  the  preceding  day;  but  the 
relapse  that  now  followed,  as  nearly  everybody 
agreed,  was  even  more  pronounced,  even  more 
symptomatic  than  the  earlier  attack  of  aber 
ration. 

In  brief,  this  was  what  happened:  To  begin 
with,  Mr.  Virgil  Overall,  who  dealt  in  lands  and 
houses  and  sold  insurance  of  all  the  commoner 
varieties  on  the  side,  had  stalked  O'Day  to  this 
point  and  was  lying  in  wait  for  him  as  he  came 
out  of  the  courthouse  into  the  Public  Square, 
being  anxious  to  describe  to  him  some  especially 
desirable  bargains,  in  both  improved  and  un 
improved  realty;  also,  Mr.  Overall  was  pre 
pared  to  book  him  for  life,  accident  and  health 
policies  on  the  spot. 

So  pleased  was  Mr.  Overall  at  having  dis- 

_____ 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

tanced  his  professional  rivals  in  the  hunt  that 
he  dribbled  at  the  mouth.  But  the  warmth 
of  his  disappointment  and  indignation  dried 
up  the  salivary  founts  instantly  when  the 
prospective  patron  declined  to  listen  to  him 
at  all  and,  breaking  free  from  Mr.  Overall's 
detaining  clasp,  hurried  on  into  Legal  Row, 
with  his  small  convoys  trotting  along  ahead  and 
alongside  him. 

At  the  door  of  the  Blue  Goose  Saloon  and 
Short  Order  Restaurant  its  proprietor,  by 
name  Link  Iserman,  was  lurking,  as  it  were,  in 
ambush.  He  hailed  the  approaching  O'Day 
most  cordially;  he  inquired  in  a  warm  voice 
regarding  O'Day 's  health;  and  then,  with  a 
rare  burst  of  generosity,  he  invited,  nay  urged, 
O'Day  to  step  inside  and  have  something  on 
the  house — wines,  ales,  liquors  or  cigars;  it  was 
all  one  to  Mr.  Iserman.  The  other  merely 
shook  his  head  and,  without  a  word  of  thanks 
for  the  offer,  passed  on  as  though  bent  upon 
an  important  mission. 

Mark  how  the  proofs  were  accumulating: 
The  man  had  disdained  the  company  of  men  of 
approximately  his  own  age  or  thereabout;  he 
had  refused  an  opportunity  to  partake  of 
refreshment  suitable  to  his  years;  and  now  he 
stepped  into  the  Bon  Ton  toy  store  and  bought 
for  cash — most  inconceivable  of  acquisitions! — 
a  little  wagon  that  was  painted  bright  red  and 
bore  on  its  sides,  in  curlicued  letters,  the  name 

Comet. 

__ 


BOYS      WILL      BE      BOYS 


His  next  stop  was  made  at  Bishop  &  Bryan's 
grocery,  where,  with  the  aid  of  his  youthful 
compatriots,  he  first  discriminatingly  selected, 
and  then  purchased  on  credit,  and  finally 
loaded  into  the  wagon,  such  purchases  as  a 
dozen  bottles  of  soda  pop,  assorted  flavours; 
cheese,  crackers — soda  and  animal;  sponge 
cakes  with  weather-proof  pink  icing  on  them; 
fruits  of  the  season;  cove  oysters;  a  bottle  of 
pepper  sauce;  and  a  quantity  of  the  extra  large 
sized  bright  green  cucumber  pickles  known  to 
the  trade  as  the  Fancy  Jumbo  Brand,  Prime 
Selected. 

Presently  the  astounding  spectacle  was  pre 
sented  of  two  small  boys,  with  string  bridles 
on  their  arms,  drawing  the  wagon  through  our 
town  and  out  of  it  into  the  country,  with  Peep 
O'Day  in  the  role  of  teamster  walking  along 
side  the  laden  wagon.  He  was  holding  the 
lines  in  his  hands  and  shouting  orders  at  his 
team,  who  showed  a  colty  inclination  to  shy 
at  objects,  to  kick  up  their  heels  without  pro 
vocation,  and  at  intervals  to  try  to  run  away. 
Eight  or  ten  small  boys — for  by  now  the  troupe 
had  grown  in  number  and  in  volume  of  noise — 
trailed  along,  keeping  step  with  their  elderly 
patron  and  advising  him  shrilly  regarding  the 
management  of  his  refractory  span. 

As  it  turned  out,  the  destination  of  this  pre 
posterous  procession  was  Bradshaw's  Grove, 
where  the  entire  party  spent  the  day  picnicking 
in  the  woods  and,  as  reported  by  several 
[.125]  


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

1 

reliable  witnesses,  playing  games.  It  was  not 
so  strange  that  holidaying  boys  should  play 
games;  the  amazing  feature  of  the  performance 
was  that  Peep  O'Day,  a  man  old  enough  to  be 
grandfather  to  any  of  them,  played  with  them, 
being  by  turns  an  Indian  chief,  a  robber  baron, 
and  the  driver  of  a  stagecoach  attacked  by 
Wild  Western  desperadoes. 

When  he  returned  to  town  at  dusk,  drawing 
his  little  red  wagon  behind  him,  his  new  suit 
was  rumpled  into  many  wrinkles  and  marked 
by  du'st  and  grass  stains ;  his  flame-coloured  tie 
was  twisted  under  one  ear;  his  new  straw  hat 
was  mashed  quite  out  of  shape;  and  in  his  eyes 
was  a  light  that  sundry  citizens,  on  meeting 
him,  could  only  interpret  to  be  a  spark  struck 
from  inner  fires  of  madness. 

Days  that  came  after  this,  on  through  the 
midsummer,  were,  with  variations,  but  repe 
titions  of  the  day  I  have  just  described.  Each 
morning  Peep  O'Day  would  go  to  either  the 
courthouse  or  Judge  Priest's  home  to  turn  over 
to  the  Judge  the  unopened  mail  which  had  been 
delivered  to  him  at  Gafford's  stables;  then  he 
would  secure  from  the  Judge  a  loan  of  money 
against  his  inheritance.  Generally  the  amount 
of  his  daily  borrowing  was  a  dollar;  rarely  was 
it  so  much  as  two  dollars;  and  only  once  was  it 
more  than  two  dollars. 

By  nightfall  the  sum  would  have  been  ex 
pended  upon  perfectly  useless  and  absolutely 
childish  devices.  It  might  be  that  he  would 
[126] 


BOYS      WILL     BE      BOYS 


buy  toy  pistols  and  paper  caps  for  himself  and 
his  following  of  urchins;  or  that  his  whim  would 
lead  him  to  expend  all  the  money  in  tin  flutes. 
In  one  case  the  group  he  so  incongruously 
headed  would  be  for  that  one  day  a  gang  of 
make-believe  banditti;  in  another,  they  would 
constitute  themselves  a  fife-and-drum  corps — 
with  barreltops  for  the  drums — and  would 
march  through  the  streets,  where  scandalised 
adults  stood  in  their  tracks  to  watch  them  go  by, 
they  all  the  while  making  weird  sounds,  which 
with  them  passed  for  music. 

Or  again,  the  available  cash  resources  would 
be  invested  in  provender;  and  then  there  would 
be  an  outing  in  the  woods.  Under  Peep  O'Day's 
captaincy  his  chosen  band  of  youngsters  picked 
dewberries;  they  went  swimming  together  in 
Guthrie's  Gravel  Pit,  out  by  the  old  Fair 
Grounds,  where  his  spare  naked  shanks  con 
trasted  strongly  with  their  plump  freckled  legs 
as  all  of  them  splashed  through  the  shallows, 
making  for  deep  water.  Under  his  leadership 
they  stole  watermelons  from  Mr.  Dick  Bell's 
patch,  afterward  eating  their  spoils  in  thickets 
of  grapevines  along  the  banks  of  Perkins'  Creek. 

It  was  felt  that  mental  befuddlement  and 
mortal  folly  could  reach  no  greater  heights — 
or  no  lower  depths — than  on  a  certain  hour  of 
a  certain  day,  along  toward  the  end  of  August, 
when  O'Day  came  forth  from  his  quarters  in 
Gafford's  stables,  wearing  a  pair  of  boots  that 
M.  Biederman's  establishment  had  turned  out 
[127]  


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

to  his  order  and  his  measure — not  such  boots 
as  a  sensible  man  might  be  expected  to  wear, 
but  boots  that  were  exaggerated  and  monstrous 
counterfeits  of  the  red-topped,  scroll-fronted, 
brass-toed,  stub-heeled,  squeaky-soled  bootees 
that  small  boys  of  an  earlier  generation  pos 
sessed. 

Very  proudly  and  seemingly  unconscious 
of  or,  at  least,  oblivious  to  the  derisive  remarks 
that  the  appearance  of  these  new  belongings 
drew  from  many  persons,  the  owner  went 
clumping  about  in  them,  with  the  rumply  legs 
of  his  trousers  tucked  down  in  them,  and 
ballooning  up  and  out  over  the  tops  in  folds 
which  overlapped  from  his  knee  joints  halfway 
down  his  attenuated  calves. 

As  Deputy  Sheriff  Quarles  said,  the  com 
bination  was  a  sight  fit  to  make  a  horse  laugh. 
It  may  be  that  small  boys  have  a  lesser  sense 
of  humour  than  horses  have,  for  certainly  the 
boys  who  were  the  old  man's  invariable  shadows 
did  not  laugh  at  him,  or  at  his  boots  either. 

Between  the  whiskered  senior  and  his  small 
comrades  there  existed  a  freemasonry  that 
made  them  all  sense  a  thing  beyond  the  ken  of 
most  of  their  elders.  Perhaps  this  was  because 
the  elders,  being  blind  in  their  superior  wisdom, 
saw  neither  this  thing  nor  the  communion  that 
flourished.  They  saw  only  the  farcical  joke. 
But  His  Honour,  Judge  Priest,  to  cite  a  con 
spicuous  exception,  seemed  not  to  see  the 
lamentable  comedy  of  it. 
[128] 


BOYS      WILL     BE      BOYS 


Indeed,  it  seemed  to  some  almost  as  if  Judge 
Priest  were  aiding  and  abetting  the  befogged 
O'Day  in  his  demented  enterprises,  his  peculiar 
excursions  and  his  weird  purchases.  If  he  did 
not  actually  encourage  him  in  these  constant 
exhibitions  of  witlessness,  certainly  there  were 
no  evidences  available  to  show  that  he  sought 
to  dissuade  O'Day  from  his  strange  course. 

At  the  end  of  a  fortnight  one  citizen,  in 
whom  patience  had  ceased  to  be  a  virtue  and 
to  whose  nature  long-continued  silence  on  any 
public  topic  was  intolerable,  felt  it  his  duty  to 
speak  to  the  Judge  upon  the  subject.  This 
gentleman — his  name  was  S.  P.  Escott — held, 
with  others,  that,  for  the  good  name  of  the 
community,  steps  should  be  taken  to  abate  the 
infantile,  futile  activities  of  the  besotted  legatee. 

Afterward  Mr.  Escott,  giving  a  partial 
account  of  the  conversation  with  Judge  Priest 
to  certain  of  his  friends,  showed  unfeigned 
annoyance  at  the  outcome. 

"I  claim  that  old  man's  not  fittin'  to  be 
runnin'  a  court  any  longer,"  he  stated  bitterly. 
"He's  too  old  and  peevish — that's  whut  ails 
him!  Fur  one,  I'm  certainly  not  never  goin' 
to  vote  fur  him  again.  Why,  it's  gettin'  to  be 
ez  much  ez  a  man's  life  is  worth  to  stop  that 
there  spiteful  old  crank  on  the  street  and  put  a 
civil  question  to  him — that's  whut's  the  mat 
ter!" 

"What  happened,  S.  P.?"  inquired  someone. 

"Why,   here's   whut  happened!"  exclaimed 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

the  aggrieved  Mr.  Escott.  "I  hadn't  any 
more  than  started  in  to  tell  him  the  whole  town 
was  talkin'  about  the  way  that  daffy  Old  Peep 
O'Day  was  carryin'  on,  and  that  somethin' 
had  oughter  be  done  about  it,  and  didn't  he 
think  it  was  beholdin5  on  him  ez  circuit  judge 
to  do  somethin'  right  away,  sech  ez  havin' 
O'Day  tuck  up  and  tried  fur  a  lunatic,  and 
that  I  fur  one  was  ready  and  willin'  to  testify 
to  the  crazy  things  I'd  seen  done  with  my  own 
eyes — when  he  cut  in  on  me  and  jest  ez  good 
ez  told  me  to  my  own  face  that  ef  I'd  quit 
tendin'  to  other  people's  business  I'd  mebbe 
have  more  business  of  my  own  to  tend  to. 

"Think  of  that,  gentlemen!  A  circuit  judge 
bemeanin'  a  citizen  and  a  taxpayer" — he 
checked  himself  slightly — "anyhow,  a  citizen, 
thataway!  It  shows  he  can't  be  rational  his 
own  self.  Personally  I  claim  Old  Priest  is 
f ailin'  mentally — he  must  be !  And  ef  anybody 
kin  be  found  to  run  against  him  at  the  next 
election  you  gentlemen  jest  watch  and  see  who 
gits  my  vote!" 

Having  uttered  this  threat  with  deep  and 
significant  emphasis  Mr.  Escott,  still  muttering, 
turned  and  entered  the  front  gate  of  his  board 
ing  house.  It  was  not  exactly  his  boarding 
house;  his  wife  ran  it.  But  Mr.  Escott  lived 
there  and  voted  from  there. 

But  the  apogee  of  Peep  O'Day's  carnival 
of  weird  vagaries  of  deportment  came  at  the 
end  of  two  months — two  months  in  which 
[130] 


BOYS      WILL     BE      BOYS 


each  day  the  man  furnished  cumulative  and 
piled-up  material  for  derisive  and  jocular  com 
ment  on  the  part  of  a  very  considerable  pro 
portion  of  his  fellow  townsmen. 

Three  occurrences  of  a  widely  dissimilar 
nature,  yet  all  closely  interrelated  to  the  main 
issue,  marked  the  climax  of  the  man's  new  role 
in  his  new  career.  The  first  of  these  was  the 
arrival  of  his  legacy;  the  second  was  a  one-ring 
circus;  and  the  third  and  last  was  a  nephew. 

In  the  form  of  certain  bills  of  exchange  the 
estate  left  by  the  late  Daniel  O'Day,  of  the 
town  of  Kilmare,  in  the  island  of  Ireland,  was 
on  a  certain  afternoon  delivered  over  into 
Judge  Priest's  hands,  and  by  him,  in  turn, 
handed  to  the  rightful  owner,  after  which 
sundry  indebtednesses,  representing  the  total 
of  the  old  Judge's  day-to-day  cash  advances 
to  O'Day,  were  liquidated. 

The  ceremony  of  deducting  this  sum  took 
place  at  the  Planters'  Bank,  whither  the  two 
had  journeyed  in  company  from  the  courthouse. 
Having,  with  the  aid  of  the  paying  teller, 
instructed  O'Day  in  the  technical  details 
requisite  to  the  drawing  of  personal  checks, 
Judge  Priest  went  home  and  had  his  bag 
packed,  and  left  for  Reelfoot  Lake  to  spend  a 
week  fishing.  As  a  consequence  he  missed  the 
remaining  two  events,  following  immediately 
thereafter. 

The  circus  was  no  great  shakes  of  a  circus; 

no  grand,  glittering,  gorgeous,  glorious  pageant 

__ 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

of  education  and  entertainment,  travelling  on 
its  own  special  trains;  no  vast  tented  city  of 
world's  wonders  and  world's  champions, 
heralded  for  weeks  and  weeks  in  advance  of 
its  coming  by  dead  walls  emblazoned  with  the 
finest  examples  of  the  lithographer's  art,  and 
by  half-page  advertisements  in  the  Daily 
Evening  News.  On  the  contrary,  it  was  a 
shabby  little  wagon  show,  which,  coming  over 
land  on  short  notice,  rolled  into  town  under 
horse  power,  and  set  up  its  ragged  and  dusty 
canvases  on  the  vacant  lot  across  from  Yeiser's 
drug  store. 

Compared  with  the  street  parade  of  any 
of  its  great  and  famous  rivals,  the  street  parade 
of  this  circus  was  a  meagre  and  disappointing 
thing.  Why,  there  was  only  one  elephant,  a 
dwarfish  and  debilitated-looking  creature,  worn 
mangy  and  slick  on  its  various  angles,  like  the 
cover  of  an  old-fashioned  haircloth  trunk;  and 
obviously  most  of  the  closed  cages  were  weather- 
beaten  stake  wagons  in  disguise.  Nevertheless, 
there  was  a  sizable  turnout  of  people  for  the 
afternoon  performance.  After  all,  a  circus 
was  a  circus. 

Moreover,  this  particular  circus  was  marked 
at  the  afternoon  performance  by  happenings 
of  a  nature  most  decidedly  unusual.  At  one 
o'clock  the  doors  were  opened:  at  one-ten  the 
eyes  of  the  proprietor  were  made  glad  and  his 
heart  was  uplifted  within  him  by  the  sight  of  a 
strange  procession,  drawing  nearer  and  nearer 


BOYS      WILL      BE      BOYS 


across  the  scuffed  turf  of  the  common,  and 
heading  in  the  direction  of  the  red  ticket  wagon. 

At  the  head  of  the  procession  marched  Peep 
O'Day — only,  of  course,  the  proprietor  didn't 
know  it  was  Peep  O'Day — a  queer  figure  in  his 
rumpled  black  clothes  and  his  red-topped 
brass-toed  boots,  and  with  one  hand  holding 
fast  to  the  string  of  a  captive  toy  balloon. 
Behind  him,  in  an  uneven  jostling  formation, 
followed  many  small  boys  and  some  small 
girls.  A  census  of  the  ranks  would  have 
developed  that  here  were  included  practically 
all  the  juvenile  white  population  who  otherwise, 
through  a  lack  of  funds,  would  have  been 
denied  the  opportunity  to  patronise  this  circus 
or,  in  fact,  any  circus. 

Each  member  of  the  joyous  company  was 
likewise  the  bearer  of  a  toy  balloon — red,  yellow, 
blue,  green  or  purple,  as  the  case  might  be. 
Over  the  line  of  heads  the  taut  rubbery  globes 
rode  on  their  tethers,  nodding  and  twisting  like 
so  many  big  iridescent  bubbles;  and  half  a 
block  away,  at  the  edge  of  the  lot,  a  balloon 
vender,  whose  entire  stock  had  been  disposed 
of  in  one  splendid  transaction,  now  stood, 
empty-handed  but  full-pocketed,  marvelling  at 
the  stroke  of  luck  that  enabled  him  to  take  an 
afternoon  off  and  rest  his  voice. 

Out  of  a  seemingly  bottomless  exchequer 
Peep  O'Day  bought  tickets  of  admission  for  all. 
But  this  was  only  the  beginning.  Once  inside 
the  tent  he  procured  accommodations  in  the 


FROM      PLACE     TO      PLACE 

reserved-seat  section  for  himself  and  those  who 
accompanied  him.  From  such  superior  points 
of  vantage  the  whole  crew  of  them  witnessed 
the  performance,  from  the  thrilling  grand  entry, 
with  spangled  ladies  and  gentlemen  riding  two 
by  two  on  broad-backed  steeds,  to  the  tumbling 
bout  introducing  the  full  strength  of  the  com 
pany,  which  came  at  the  end. 

They  munched  fresh-roasted  peanuts  and 
balls  of  sugar-coated  pop  corn,  slightly  rancid, 
until  they  munched  no  longer  with  zest  but 
merely  mechanically.  They  drank  pink  lemon 
ade  to  an  extent  that  threatened  absolute 
depletion  of  the  fluid  contents  of  both  barrels 
in  the  refreshment  stand  out  in  the  menagerie 
tent.  They  whooped  their  unbridled  approval 
when  the  wild  Indian  chief,  after  shooting  down 
a  stuffed  coon  with  a  bow  and  arrow  from  some 
where  up  near  the  top  of  the  centre  pole  while 
balancing  himself  jauntily  erect  upon  the 
haunches  of  a  coursing  white  charger,  sud 
denly  flung  off  his  feathered  headdress,  his 
wig  and  his  fringed  leather  garments,  and 
revealed  himself  in  pink  fleshings  as  the  prin 
cipal  bareback  rider. 

They  screamed  in  a  chorus  of  delight  when 
the  funny  old  clown,  who  had  been  forcibly 
deprived  of  three  tin  flutes  in  rapid  succession, 
now  produced  yet  a  fourth  from  the  seemingly 
inexhaustible  depths  of  his  baggy  white  pants — 
a  flute  with  a  string  and  a  bent  pin  affixed  to 
it — and,  secretly  hooking  the  pin  in  the  tail  of 


BOYS      WILL      BE      BO  Y  S 


the  cross  ringmaster's  coat,  was  thereafter 
enabled  to  toot  sharp  shrill  blasts  at  frequent 
intervals,  much  to  the  chagrin  of  the  ring 
master,  who  seemed  utterly  unable  to  discover 
the  whereabouts  of  the  instrument  dangling 
behind  him. 

But  no  one  among  them  whooped  louder  or 
laughed  longer  than  their  elderly  and  be- 
whiskered  friend,  who  sat  among  them,  paying 
the  bills.  As  his  guests  they  stayed  for  the 
concert;  and,  following  this,  they  patronised  the 
side  show  in  a  body.  They  had  been  almost 
the  first  upon  the  scene;  assuredly  they  were 
the  last  of  the  audience  to  quit  it. 

Indeed,  before  they  trailed  their  confrere 
away  from  the  spot  the  sun  was  nearly  down; 
and  at  scores  of  supper  tables  all  over  town  the 
tale  of  poor  old  Peep  O'Day's  latest  exhibition 
of  freakishness  was  being  retailed,  with  elabora 
tions,  to  interested  auditors.  Estimates  of 
the  sum  probably  expended  by  him  in  this 
crowning  extravagance  ranged  well  up  into  the 
hundreds  of  dollars. 

As  for  the  object  of  these  speculations,  he 
was  destined  not  to  eat  any  supper  at  all  that 
night.  Something  happened  that  so  upset 
him  as  to  make  him  forget  the  meal  altogether. 
It  began  to  happen  when  he  reached  the  modest 
home  of  P.  Gafford,  adjoining  the  Gafford 
stables,  on  Locust  Street,  and  found  sitting 
on  the  lowermost  step  of  the  porch  a  young 

man    of    untidy    and    unshaven    aspect,    who 

__  _ 


FROM      PLACE     TO      PLACE 

hailed  him  affectionately  as  Uncle  Paul,  and 
who  showed  deep  annoyance  and  acute  distress 
upon  being  rebuffed  with  chill  words. 

It  is  possible  that  the  strain  of  serving  a 
three-months'  sentence,  on  the  technical  charge 
of  vagrancy,  in  a  workhouse  somewhere  in 
Indiana,  had  affected  the  young  man's  nerves. 
His  ankle  bones  still  ached  where  the  ball  and 
chain  had  been  hitched ;  on  his  palms  the  blisters 
induced  by  the  uncongenial  use  of  a  sledge 
hammer  on  a  rock  pile  had  hardly  as  yet  turned 
to  calluses.  So  it  is  only  fair  to  presume  that 
his  nervous  system  felt  the  stress  of  his  recent 
confining  experiences. 

Almost  tearfully  he  pleaded  with  Peep  O'Day 
to  remember  the  ties  of  blood  that  bound  them; 
repeatedly  he  pointed  out  that  he  was  the  only 
known  kinsman  of  the  other  in  all  the  world, 
and,  therefore,  had  more  reason  than  any  other 
living  being  to  expect  kindness  and  generosity 
at  his  uncle's  hands.  He  spoke  socialistically 
of  the  advisability  of  an  equal  division;  failing 
to  make  any  impression  here  he  mentioned 
the  subject  of  a  loan — at  first  hopefully,  but 
finally  despairingly. 

When  he  was  done  Peep  O'Day,  in  a  per 
fectly  colourless  and  unsympathetic  voice,  bade 
him  good-by — not  good  night  but  good -by! 
And,  going  inside  the  house,  he  closed  the  door 
behind  him,  leaving  his  newly  returned  relative 
outside  and  quite  alone. 

At  this  the  young  man  uttered  violent  Ian- 
[  136  ] 


BOYS      WILL      BE      BOYS 


guage;  but,  since  there  was  nobody  present  to 
hear  him,  it  is  likely  he  found  small  satisfaction 
in  his  profanity,  rich  though  it  may  have  been 
in  metaphor  and  variety.  So  presently  he 
betook  himself  off,  going  straight  to  the  office 
in  Legal  Row  of  H.  B.  Sublette,  attorney  at  law. 

From  the  circumstance  that  he  found  Mr. 
Sublette  in,  though  it  was  long  past  that  gentle 
man's  office  hours,  and,  moreover,  found  Mr. 
Sublette  waiting  in  an  expectant  and  attentive 
attitude,  it  might  have  been  adduced  by  one 
skilled  in  the  trick  of  putting  two  and  two 
together  that  the  pair  of  them  had  reached  a 
prior  understanding  sometime  during  the  day; 
and  that  the  visit  of  the  young  man  to  the 
Gafford  home  and  his  speeches  there  had  all 
been  parts  of  a  scheme  planned  out  at  a  prior 
conference. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  as  soon  as  Mr.  Sublette 
had  heard  his  caller's  version  of  the  meeting 
upon  the  porch  he  lost  no  time  in  taking  certain 
legal  steps.  That  very  night,  on  behalf  of  his 
client,  denominated  in  the  documents  as  Perci- 
val  Dwyer,  Esquire,  he  prepared  a  petition 
addressed  to  the  circuit  judge  of  the  district, 
setting  forth  that,  inasmuch  as  Paul  Felix 
O'Day  had  by  divers  acts  shown  himself  to  be 
of  unsound  mind,  now,  therefore,  came  his 
nephew  and  next  of  kin  praying  that  a  com 
mittee  or  curator  be  appointed  to  take  over  the 
estate  of  the  said  Paul  Felix  O'Day,  and  ad- 
minister  the  same  in  accordance  with  the  orders 

T_ 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

of  the  court  until  such  time  as  the  said  Paul 
Felix  O'Day  should  recover  his  reason,  or  should 
pass  from  this  life,  and  so  forth  and  so  on;  not 
to  mention  whereases  in  great  number  and 
aforesaids  abounding  throughout  the  text  in 
the  utmost  profusion. 

On  the  following  morning  the  papers  were 
filed  with  Circuit  Clerk  Milam.  That  vigilant 
barrister,  Mr.  Sublette,  brought  them  in  person 
to  the  courthouse  before  nine  o'clock,  he  having 
the  interests  of  his  client  at  heart  and  perhaps 
also  visions  of  a  large  contingent  fee  in  his 
mind.  No  retainer  had  been  paid.  The  state 
of  Mr.  Dwyer's  finances — or,  rather,  the 
absence  of  any  finances — had  precluded  the 
performance  of  that  customary  detail;  but  to 
Mr.  Subletted  experienced  mind  the  prospects 
of  future  increment  seemed  large. 

Accordingly  he  was  all  for  prompt  action. 
Formally  he  said  he  wished  to  go  on  record  as 
demanding  for  his  principal  a  speedy  hearing 
of  the  issue,  with  a  view  to  preventing  the 
defendant  named  in  the  pleadings  from  dis 
sipating  any  more  of  the  estate  lately  be 
queathed  to  him  and  now  fully  in  his  possession 
— or  words  to  that  effect. 

Mr.  Milam  felt  justified  in  getting  into  com 
munication  with  Judge  Priest  over  the  long 
distance  phone;  and  the  Judge,  cutting  short 
his  vacation  and  leaving  uncaught  vast  numbers 
of  bass  and  perch  in  Reelfoot  Lake,  came  home, 
arriving  late  that  night. 


BOYS      WILL      BE      BOYS 


Next  morning,  having  issued  divers  orders 
in  connection  with  the  impending  litigation, 
he  sent  a  messenger  to  find  Peep  O'Day  and 
to  direct  O'Day  to  come  to  the  courthouse  for 
a  personal  interview. 

Shortly  thereafter  a  scene  that  had  occurred 
some  two  months  earlier,  with  His  Honour's 
private  chamber  for  a  setting,  was  substantially 
duplicated:  There  was  the  same  cast  of  two, 
the  same  stage  properties,  the  same  atmosphere 
of  untidy  tidiness.  And,  as  before,  the  dia 
logue  was  in  Judge  Priest's  hands.  He  led 
and  his  fellow  character  followed  his  leads. 

"Peep,"  he  was  saying,  "you  understand, 
don't  you,  that  this  here  fragrant  nephew  of 
yours  that's  turned  up  from  nowheres  in 
particular  is  fixin'  to  git  ready  to  try  to  prove 
that  you  are  feeble-minded?  And,  on  top  of 
that,  that  he's  goin'  to  ask  that  a  committee  be 
app'inted  fur  you — in  other  words,  that  some 
body  or  other  shall  be  named  by  the  court, 
meanin'  me,  to  take  charge  of  your  property 
and  control  the  spendin'  of  it  frum  now  on?" 

"Yes,  suh,"  stated  O'Day.  "Pete  Gafford 
he  set  down  with  me  and  made  hit  all  clear  to 
me,  yestiddy  evenin',  after  they'd  done  served 
the  papers  on  me." 

"All  right,  then.  Now  I'm  goin'  to  fix  the 
hearin'  fur  to-morrow  mornin'  at  ten.  The 
other  side  is  askin'  fur  a  quick  decision;  and  I 
rather  figger  they're  entitled  to  it.  Is  that 
agreeable  to  you?" 

" 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

"Whutever  you  say,  Judge." 

"Well,  have  you  retained  a  lawyer  to  repre 
sent  your  interests  in  court?  That's  the  main 
question  that  I  sent  fur  you  to  ast  you." 

"Do  I  need  a  lawyer,  Judge?" 

"Well,  there  have  been  times  when  I  regarded 
lawyers  ez  bein'  superfluous,"  stated  Judge 
Priest  dryly.  "Still,  in  most  cases  litigants  do 
have  'em  round  when  the  case  is  bein'  heard." 

"I  don't  know  ez  I  need  any  lawyer  to  he'p 
me  say  whut  I've  got  to  say,"  said  O'Day. 
"Judge,  you  ain't  never  ast  me  no  questions 
about  the  way  I've  been  carryin'  on  sence  I 
come  into  this  here  money;  but  I  reckin  mebbe 
this  is  ez  good  a  time  ez  any  to  tell  you  jest  why 
I've  been  actin'  the  way  I've  done.  You  see, 
suh " 

"Hold  on!"  broke  in  Judge  Priest.  "Up 
till  now,  ez  my  friend,  it  would  'a'  been  per' 
fectly  proper  fur  you  to  give  me  your  confi 
dences  ef  you  were  minded  so  to  do;  but  now  I 
reckin  you'd  better  not.  You  see,  I'm  the 
judge  that's  got  to  decide  whether  you  are  a 
responsible  person — whether  you're  mentally 
capable  of  handlin'  your  own  financial  affairs, 
or  whether  you  ain't.  So  you'd  better  wait 
and  make  your  statement  in  your  own  behalf 
to  me  whilst  I'm  settin'  on  the  bench.  I'll  see 
that  you  git  an  opportunity  to  do  so  and  I'll 
listen  to  it;  and  I'll  give  it  all  the  consideration 
it's  deservin'  of. 

"And,  on  second  thought,  p'raps  it  would 
[140]  " 


BOYS      WILL      BE      BOYS 


only  be  a  waste  of  time  and  money  fur  you  to 
go  hirin'  a  lawyer  specially  to  represent  you. 
Under  the  law  it's  my  duty,  in  sech  a  case  ez 
this  here  one  is,  to  app'int  a  member  of  the  bar 
to  serve  durin'  the  proceedings  ez  your  guardian 
ad  lit  em. 

"You  don't  need  to  be  startled,"  he  added  as 
O'Day  flinched  at  the  sound  in  his  ears  of  these 
strange  and  fearsome  words.  "A  guardian 
ad  litem  is  simply  a  lawyer  that  tends  to  your 
affairs  till  the  case  is  settled  one  way  or  the 
other.  Ef  you  had  a  dozen  lawyers  I'd  have 
to  app'int  him  jest  the  same.  So  you  don't 
need  to  worry  about  that  part  of  it. 

"That's  all.  You  kin  go  now  ef  you  want 
to.  Only,  ef  I  was  you,  I  wouldn't  draw  out 
any  more  money  frum  the  bank  'twixt  now  and 
the  time  when  I  make  my  decision." 

All  things  considered,  it  was  an  unusual 
assemblage  that  Judge  Priest  regarded  over 
the  top  rims  of  his  glasses  as  he  sat  facing  it  in 
his  broad  armchair,  with  the  flat  top  of  the 
bench  intervening  between  him  and  the  gath 
ering.  Not  often,  even  in  the  case  of  exciting 
murder  trials,  had  the  old  courtroom  held  a 
larger  crowd;  certainly  never  had  it  held  so 
many  boys.  Boys,  and  boys  exclusively,  filled 
the  ba("k  rows  of  benches  downstairs.  More 
boys  packed  the  narrow  shelf -like  balcony  that 
spanned  the  chamber  across  its  far  end — 
mainly  small  boys,  barefooted,  sunburned, 


i 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

freckled-faced,  shock-headed  boys.  And,  for 
boys,  they  were  strangely  silent  and  strangely 
attentive. 

The  petitioner  sat  with  his  counsel,  Mr. 
Sublette.  The  petitioner  had  been  newly 
shaved,  and  from  some  mysterious  source  had 
been  equipped  with  a  neat  wardrobe.  Plainly 
he  was  endeavouring  to  wear  a  look  of  virtue, 
which  was  a  difficult  undertaking,  as  you 
would  understand  had  you  known  the  pe 
titioner. 

The  defending  party  to  the  action  was  seated 
across  the  room,  touching  elbows  with  old 
Colonel  Farrell,  dean  of  the  local  bar  and  its 
most  florid  orator. 

"The  court  will  designate  Col.  Horatio 
Farrell  as  guardian  ad  litem  for  the  defendant 
during  these  proceedings,"  Judge  Priest  had 
stated  a  few  minutes  earlier,  using  the  formal 
and  grammatical  language  he  reserved  ex 
clusively  for  his  courtroom. 

At  once  old  Colonel  Farrell  had  hitched  his 
chair  up  alongside  O'Day;  had  asked  him 
several  questions  in  a  tone  inaudible  to  those 
about  them;  had  listened  to  the  whispered 
answers  of  O'Day;  and  then  had  nodded  his 
huge  curly  white  dome  of  a  head,  as  though 
amply  satisfied  with  the  responses. 

Let  us  skip  the  preliminaries.  True,  they 
seemed  to  interest  the  audience;  here,  though, 
they  would  be  tedious  reading.  Likewise,  in 
touching  upon  the  opening  and  outlining 


BOYS      WILL      BE      BOYS 


address  of  Attorney-at-Law  Sublette  let  us, 
for  the  sake  of  time  and  space,  be  very  much 
briefer  than  Mr.  Sublette  was.  For  our  present 
purposes,  I  deem  it  sufficient  to  say  that  in  all 
his  professional  career  Mr.  Sublette  was  never 
more  eloquent,  never  more  forceful,  never  more 
vehement  in  his  allegations,  and  never  more 
convinced — as  he  himself  stated,  not  once  but 
repeatedly — of  his  ability  to  prove  the  facts  he 
alleged  by  competent  and  unbiased  testimony. 
These  facts,  he  pointed  out,  were  common 
knowledge  in  the  community;  nevertheless,  he 
stood  prepared  to  buttress  them  with  the  evi 
dence  of  reputable  witnesses,  given  under  oath. 

Mr.  Sublette,  having  unwound  at  length, 
now  wound  up.  He  sat  down,  perspiring  freely 
and  through  the  perspiration  radiating  confi 
dence  in  his  contentions,  confidence  in  the 
result  and,  most  of  all,  unbounded  confidence 
in  Mr.  Sublette. 

Now  Colonel  Farrell  was  standing  up  to 
address  the  court.  Under  the  cloak  of  a 
theatrical  presence  and  a  large  orotund  manner, 
and  behind  a  Ciceronian  command  of  sonorous 
language,  the  colonel  carried  concealed  a  shrewd 
old  brain.  It  was  as  though  a  skilled  marks 
man  lurked  in  ambush  amid  a  tangle  of  luxu 
riant  foliage.  In  this  particular  instance,  more 
over,  it  is  barely  possible  that  the  colonel  was 
acting  on  a  cue,  privily  conveyed  to,  him  before 
the  court  opened. 

"May   it  please   Your  Honour,"  he   began, 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

"I  have  just  conferred  with  the  defendant  here; 
and,  acting  in  the  capacity  of  his  guardian  ad 
litem,  I  have  advised  him  to  waive  an  opening 
address  by  counsel.  Indeed,  the  defendant 
has  no  counsel.  Furthermore,  the  defendant, 
also  acting  upon  my  advice,  will  present  no 
witnesses  in  his  own  behalf.  But,  with  Your 
Honour's  permission,  the  defendant  will  now 
make  a  personal  statement;  and  thereafter  he 
will  rest  content,  leaving  the  final  arbitrament 
of  the  issue  to  Your  Honour's  discretion." 

"I  object!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Sublette  briskly. 

"On  what  grounds  does  the  learned  counsel 
object?"  inquired  Judge  Priest. 

"On  the  grounds  that,  since  the  mental 
competence  of  this  man  is  concerned — since  it 
is  our  contention  that  he  is  patently  and 
plainly  a  victim  of  senility,  an  individual  pre 
maturely  in  his  dotage — any  utterances  by  him 
will  be  of  no  value  whatsoever  in  aiding  the 
conscience  and  intelligence  of  the  court  to  arrive 
at  a  fair  and  just  conclusion  regarding  the 
defendant's  mental  condition." 

Mr.  Sublette  excelled  in  the  use  of  big  words; 
there  was  no  doubt  about  that. 

"The  objection  is  overruled,"  said  Judge 
Priest.  He  nodded  in  the  direction  of  O'Day 
and  Colonel  Farrell.  "The  court  will  hear  the 
defendant.  He  is  not  to  be  interrupted  while 
making  his  statement.  The  defendant  may 
proceed." 

Without  further  urging,   O'Day   stood   up, 


BOYS      WILL     BE      BOYS 

a  tall,  slab-sided  rack  of  a  man,  with  his  long 
arms  dangling  at  his  sides,  half  facing  Judge 
Priest  and  half  facing  his  nephew  and  his 
nephew's  lawyer.  Without  hesitation  he  began 
to  speak.  And  this  was  what  he  said: 

"There's  mebbe  some  here  ez  knows  about 
how  I  was  raised  and  fetched  up.  My  paw 
and  my  maw  died  when  I  was  jest  only  a  baby; 
so  I  was  brung  up  out  here  at  the  old  county 
porehouse  ez  a  pauper.  I  can't  remember  the 
time  when  I  didn't  have  to  work  for  my  board 
and  keep,  and  work  hard.  While  other  boys 
was  goin'  to  school  and  play  in'  hooky,  and 
goin'  in  washin'  in  the  creek,  and  playin'  games, 
and  all  sech  ez  that,  I  had  to  work.  I  never 
done  no  playin'  round  in  my  whole  life — not 
till  here  jest  recently,  anyway. 

"But  I  always  craved  to  play  round  some. 
I  didn't  never  say  nothin'  about  it  to  nobody 
after  I  growed  up,  'cause  I  figgered  it  out  they 
wouldn't  understand  and  mebbe'd  laugh  at  me; 
but  all  these  years,  ever  sence  I  left  that  there 
porehouse,  I've  had  a  hankerin'  here  inside  of 
me" — he  lifted  one  hand  and  touched  his 
breast — "I've  had  a  hankerin'  to  be  a  boy  and 
to  do  all  the  things  a  boy  does;  to  do  the  things 
I  was  chiselled  out  of  doin'  whilst  I  was  of  a 
suitable  age  to  be  doin'  'em.  I  call  to  mind 
that  I  uster  dream  in  my  sleep  about  doin'  'em; 
but  the  dream  never  come  true — not  till  jest 
here  lately.  It  didn't  have  no  chancet  to  come 
true — not  till  then. • 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

"So,  when  this  money  come  to  me  so  sudden 
and  unbeknownstlike  I  said  to  myself  that  I 
was  goin'  to  make  that  there  dream  come  true; 
and  I  started  out  fur  to  do  it.  And  I  done  it! 
And  I  reckin  that's  the  cause  of  my  bein'  here 
to-day,  accused  of  bein'  feeble-minded.  But, 
even  so,  I  don't  regret  it  none.  Ef  it  was  all 
to  do  over  ag'in  I'd  do  it  jest  the  very  same  way. 

"Why,  I  never  knowed  whut  it  was,  till  here 
two  months  or  so  ago,  to  have  my  fill  of  bananas 
and  candy  and  gingersnaps,  and  all  sech 
knickknacks  ez  them.  All  my  life  I've  been 
cravin'  secretly  to  own  a  pair  of  red-topped 
boots  with  brass  toes  on  'em,  like  I  used  to  see 
other  boys  wearin'  in  the  wintertime  when  I 
was  out  yonder  at  that  porehouse  wearin'  an 
old  pair  of  somebody  else's  cast-off  shoes — 
mebbe  a  man's  shoes,  with  rags  wropped  round 
my  feet  to  keep  the  snow  frum  comin'  through 
the  cracks  in  'em,  and  to  keep  'em  frum  slippin' 
right  spang  off  my  feet.  I  got  three  toes 
frostbit  oncet  durin'  a  cold  spell,  wearin'  them 
kind  of  shoes.  But  here  the  other  week  I 
found  myself  able  to  buy  me  some  red-top 
boots  with  brass  toes  on  'em.  So  I  had  'em 
made  to  order  and  I'm  wearin'  'em  now.  I 
wear  'em  reg'lar  even  ef  it  is  summertime.  I 
take  a  heap  of  pleasure  out  of  'em.  And,  also, 
all  my  life  long  I've  been  wantin'  to  go  to  a 
circus.  But  not  till  three  days  ago  I  didn't 
never  git  no  chancet  to  go  to  one. 

"That  gentleman  yonder — Mister  Sublette— 
[146] 


BOYS      WILL     BE      BOYS 

he  'lowed  jest  now  that  I  was  leadin'  a  lot  of 
little  boys  in  this  here  town  into  bad  habits. 
He  said  that  I  was  learnin'  'em  nobody  knowed 
whut  devilment.  And  he  spoke  of  my  havin' 
egged  'em  on  to  steal  watermelons  frum  Mister 
Bell's  watermelon  patch  out  here  three  miles 
frum  town,  on  the  Marshallville  gravel  road. 
You-all  heared  whut  he  jest  now  said  about 
that. 

"I  don't  mean  no  offence  and  I  beg  his 
pardon  fur  contradictin'  him  right  out  before 
everybody  here  in  the  big  courthouse;  but, 
mister,  you're  wrong.  I  don't  lead  these  here 
boys  astray  that  I've  been  runnin'  round  with. 
They're  mighty  nice  clean  boys,  all  of  'em. 
Some  of  'em  are  mighty  near  ez  pore  ez  whut 
I  uster  be;  but  there  ain't  no  real  harm  in  any 
of  'em.  We  git  along  together  fine — me  and 
them.  And,  without  no  preachin',  nor  nothin' 
like  that,  I've  done  my  best  these  weeks  we've 
been  frolickin'  and  projectin'  round  together  to 
keep  'em  frum  growin'  up  to  do  mean  things. 

"I  use  chawin'  tobacco  myself;  but  I've  tole 
'em,  I  don't  know  how  many  times,  that  ef 
they  chaw  it'll  stunt  'em  in  their  growth. 
And  I've  got  several  of  'em  that  was 
smokin'  cigarettes  on  the  sly  to  promise  me 
they'd  quit.  So  I  don't  figger  ez  I've  done 
them  boys  any  real  harm  by  goin'  round  with 
'em.  And  I  believe  ef  you  was  to  ast  'em 
they'd  all  tell  you  the  same,  suh. 

"Now  about  them  watermelons:  Sence  this 

_____ .... - 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

gentleman  has  brung  them  watermelons  up, 
I'm  goin'  to  tell  you-all  the  truth  about  that 
too." 

He  cast  a  quick,  furtive  look,  almost  a  guilty 
look,  over  his  shoulder  toward  the  rear  of  the 
courtroom  before  he  went  on: 

"Them  watermelons  wasn't  really  stole  at 
all.  I  seen  Mister  Dick  Bell  beforehand  and 
arranged  with  him  to  pay  him  in  full  fur  whut- 
ever  damage  mout  be  done.  But,  you  see,  I 
knowed  watermelons  tasted  sweeter  to  a  boy 
ef  he  thought  he'd  hooked  'em  out  of  a  patch; 
so  I  never  let  on  to  my  little  pardners  yonder 
that  I'd  the  same  ez  paid  Mister  Bell  in  advance 
fur  the  melons  we  took  out  of  his  patch  and 
et  in  the  woods.  They've  all  been  thinkin'  up 
till  now  that  we  really  hooked  them  water 
melons.  But  ef  that  was  wrong  I'm  sorry  fur 
it. 

"Mister  Sublette,  you  jest  now  said  that  I 
was  fritterin'  away  my  property  on  vain 
foolishment.  Them  was  the  words  you  used — 
*  fritterin' '  and  'vain  foolishment.'  Mebbe 
you're  right,  suh,  about  the  fritterin'  part;  but 
ef  spendin'  money  in  a  certain  way  gives  a 
man  ez  much  pleasure  ez  it's  give  me  these  last 
two  months,  and  ef  the  money  is  his'n  by 
rights,  I  figger  it  can't  be  so  very  foolish; 
though  it  may  'pear  so  to  some. 

"Excusin'  these  here  clothes  I've  got  on  and 
these  here  boots,  which  ain't  paid  fur  yet,  but 
are  charged  up  to  me  on  Felsburg  Brothers' 


BOYS      WILL      BE      BOYS 


books  and  Mister  M.  Biederman's  books,  I 
didn't  spend  only  a  dollar  a  day,  or  mebbe 
two  dollars,  and  once  three  dollars  in  a  single 
day  out  of  whut  was  comin'  to  me.  The  Judge 
here,  he  let  me  have  that  out  of  his  own  pocket; 
and  I  paid  him  back.  And  that  was  all  I  did 
spend  till  here  three  days  ago  when  that  there 
circus  come  to  town.  I  reckin  I  did  spend  a 
right  smart  then. 

"My  money  had  come  frum  the  old  country 
only  the  day  before;  so  I  went  to  the  bank  and 
they  writ  out  one  of  them  pieces  of  paper  which 
is  called  a  check,  and  I  signed  it — with  my 
mark;  and  they  give  me  the  money  I  wanted — 
an  even  two  hundred  dollars.  And  part  of  that 
there  money  I  used  to  pay  fur  circus  tickets 
fur  all  the  little  boys  and  little  girls  I  could  find 
in  this  town  that  couldn't  'a'  got  to  the  circus 
no  other  way.  Some  of  'em  are  settin'  back 
there  behind  you-all  now — some  of  the  boys, 
I  mean;  I  don't  see  none  of  the  little  girls. 

"There  was  several  of  'em  told  me  at  the 
time  they  hadn't  never  seen  a  circus — not  in 
their  whole  lives!  Fur  that  matter,  I  hadn't, 
neither;  but  I  didn't  want  no  pore  child  in  this 
town  to  grow  up  to  be  ez  old  ez  I  am  without 
havin'  been  to  at  least  one  circus.  So  I  taken 
'em  all  in  and  paid  all  the  bills;  and  when  night 
come  there  wasn't  but  'bout  nine  dollars  left 
out  of  the  whole  two  hundred  that  I'd  started 
out  with  in  the  mornin'.  But  I  don't  begredge 
spendin'  it.  It  looks  to  me  like  it  was  money 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

well  invested.  They  all  seemed  to  enjoy  it; 
and  I  know  I  done  so. 

"There  may  be  bigger  circuses'n  whut  that 
one  was;  but  I  don't  see  how  a  circus  could  'a' 
been  any  better  than  this  here  one  I'm  tellin' 
about,  ef  it  was  ten  times  ez  big.  I  don't  regret 
the  investment  and  I  don't  aim  to  lie  about  it 
now.  Mister  Sublette,  I'd  do  the  same  thing 
over  ag'in  ef  the  chance  should  come,  lawsuit 
or  no  lawsuit.  Ef  you  should  win  this  here 
case  mebbe  I  wouldn't  have  no  second 
chance. 

"Ef  some  gentleman  is  app'inted  ez  a  com 
mittee  to  handle  my  money  it's  likely  he 
wouldn't  look  at  the  thing  the  same  way  I  do; 
and  it's  likely  he  wouldn't  let  me  have  so  much 
money  all  in  one  lump  to  spend  takin'  a  passel 
of  little  shavers  that  ain't  no  kin  to  me  to  the 
circus  and  to  the  side  show,  besides  lettin'  'em 
stay  fur  the  grand  concert  or  after-show,  and 
all.  But  I  done  it  once;  and  I've  got  it  to 
remember  about  and  think  about  in  my  own 
mind  ez  long  ez  I  live. 

"I'm  'bout  finished  now.  There's  jest  one 
thing  more  I'd  like  to  say,  and  that  is  this: 
Mister  Sublette  he  said  a  minute  ago  that  I 
was  in  my  second  childhood.  Meanin'  no 
offence,  suh,  but  you  was  wrong  there  too. 
The  way  I  look  at  it,  a  man  can't  be  in  his 
second  childhood  without  he's  had  his  first 
childhood;  and  I  was  cheated  plum'  out  of 
mine.  I'm  more'n  sixty  years  old,  ez  near  ez 
[150] 


BOYS      WILL     BE      BOYS 


I  kin  figger;  but  I'm  tryin'  to  be  a  boy  before 
it's  too  late." 

He  paused  a  moment  and  looked  round  him. 

"The  way  I  look  at  it,  Judge  Priest,  suh, 
and  you-all,  every  man  that  grows  up,  no  mat 
ter  how  old  he  may  git  to  be,  is  entitled  to  'a' 
been  a  boy  oncet  in  his  lifetime.  I — I  reckin 
that's  all." 

He  sat  down  and  dropped  his  eyes  upon  the 
floor,  as  though  ashamed  that  his  temerity 
should  have  carried  him  so  far.  There  was  a 
strange  little  hush  filling  the  courtroom.  It 
was  Judge  Priest  who  broke  it. 

"The  court,"  he  said,  "has  by  the  words 
just  spoken  by  this  man  been  sufficiently 
advised  as  to  the  sanity  of  the  man  himself. 
The  court  cares  to  hear  nothing  more  from 
either  side  on  this  subject.  The  petition  is 
dismissed." 

Very  probably  these  last  words  may  have 
been  as  so  much  Greek  to  the  juvenile  mem 
bers  of  the  audience;  possibly,  though,  they 
were  made  aware  of  the  meaning  of  them  by 
the  look  upon  the  face  of  Nephew  Percival 
Dwyer  and  the  look  upon  the  face  of  Nephew 
Percival  Dwyer's  attorney.  At  any  rate,  His 
Honour  hardly  had  uttered  the  last  syllable  of 
his  decision  before,  from  the  rear  of  the  court 
room  and  from  the  gallery  above,  there  arose  a 
shrill,  vehement,  sincere  sound  of  yelling — 
exultant,  triumphant  and  deafening.  It  con- 
tinued  for  upward  of  a  minute  before  the  small 
[151] 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

disturbers  remembered  where  they  were  and 
reduced  themselves  to  a  state  of  comparative 
quiet. 

For  reasons  best  known  to  himself,  Judge 
Priest,  who  ordinarily  stickled  for  order  and 
decorum  in  his  courtroom,  made  no  effort  to 
quell  the  outburst  or  to  have  it  quelled — not 
even  when  a  considerable  number  of  the  adults 
present  joined  in  it,  having  first  cleared  their 
throats  of  a  slight  huskiness  that  had  come 
upon  them,  severally  and  generally. 

Presently  the  Judge  rapped  for  quiet — and 
got  it.  It  was  apparent  that  he  had  more  to 
say;  and  all  there  hearkened  to  hear  what  it 
might  be. 

"I  have  just  this  to  add,"  quoth  His  Honour: 
"It  is  the  official  judgment  of  this  court  that 
the  late  defendant,  being  entirely  sane,  is  com 
petent  to  manage  his  own  affairs  after  his 
preferences. 

"And  it  is  the  private  opinion  of  this  court 
that  not  only  is  the  late  defendant  sane  but 
that  he  is  the  sanest  man  in  this  entire  ju 
risdiction.  Mister  Clerk,  court  stands  ad 
journed." 

Coming  down  the  three  short  steps  from  the 
raised  platform  of  the  bench,  Judge  Priest 
beckoned  to  Sheriff  Giles  Birdsong,  who,  at 
the  tail  of  the  departing  crowd,  was  shepherding 
its  last  exuberant  members  through  the  door 
way. 

"Giles,"  said  Judge  Priest  in  an  undertone. 


BOYS      WILL      BE      BOYS 


when  the  worthy  sheriff  had  drawn  near,  "the 
circuit  clerk  tells  me  there's  an  indictment  fur 
malicious  mischief  ag'in  this  here  Perce  Dwyer 
knockin'  round  amongst  the  records  some- 
wheres — an  indictment  the  grand  jury  returned 
several  sessions  back,  but  which  was  never 
pressed,  owin'  to  the  sudden  departure  frum 
our  midst  of  the  person  in  question. 

"I  wonder  ef  it  would  be  too  much  trouble 
fur  you  to  sort  of  drap  a  hint  in  the  ear  of  the 
young  man  or  his  lawyer  that  the  said  indict 
ment  is  apt  to  be  revived,  and  that  the  said 
Dwyer  is  liable  to  be  tuck  into  custody  by  you 
and  lodged  in  the  county  jail  sometime  during 
the  ensuin'  forty-eight  hours — without  he 
should  see  his  way  clear  durin'  the  meantime 
to  get  clean  out  of  this  city,  county  and  state! 
Would  it?" 

"Trouble?  No,  suh!  It  won't  be  no  trouble 
to  me,"  said  Mr.  Birdsong  promptly.  "Why, 
it'll  be  more  of  a  pleasure,  Judge." 

And  so  it  was. 

Except  for  one  small  added  and  purely  inci 
dental  circumstance,  our  narrative  is  ended. 
That  same  afternoon  Judge  Priest  sat  on  the 
front  porch  of  his  old  white  house  out  on  Clay 
Street,  waiting  for  Jeff  Poindexter  to  summon 
him  to  supper.  Peep  O'Day  opened  the  front 
gate  and  came  up  the  gravelled  walk  between 
the  twin  rows  of  silver-leaf  poplars.  The 
Judge,  rising  to  greet  his  visitor,  met  him  at  the 
top  step. 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

"Come  in,"  bade  the  Judge  heartily,  "and 
set  down  a  spell  and  rest  your  face  and  hands." 

"No,  suh;  much  obliged,  but  I  ain't  got  only 
a  minute  to  stay,"  said  O'Day.  "I  jest  come 
out  here,  suh,  to  thank  you  fur  whut  you  done 
to-day  on  my  account  in  the  big  courthouse, 
and — and  to  make  you  a  little  kind  of  a 
present." 

"It's  all  right  to  thank  me,"  said  Judge 
Priest;  "but  I  couldn't  accept  any  reward  fur 
renderin'  a  decision  in  accordance  with  the 
plain  facts." 

"'Tain't  no  gift  of  money,  or  nothin'  like 
that,"  O'Day  hastened  to  explain.  "Really, 
suh,  it  don't  amount  to  nothin'  at  all,  scursely. 
But  a  little  while  ago  I  happened  to  be  in  Mr. 
B.  Weil  &  Son's  store,  doin'  a  little  tradin',  and 
I  run  acrost  a  new  kind  of  knickknack,  which  it 
seemed  like  to  me  it  was  about  the  best  thing 
I  ever  tasted  in  my  whole  life.  So,  on  the 
chancet,  suh,  that  you  might  have  a  sweet 
tooth,  too,  I  taken  the  liberty  of  bringin'  you  a 
sack  of  'em  and — and — and  here  they  are,  suh; 
three  flavors — strawberry,  lemon  and  vanilly." 

Suddenly  overcome  with  confusion,  he  dis 
lodged  a  large-sized  paper  bag  from  his  side 
coat  pocket  and  thrust  it  into  Judge  Priest's 
hands;  then,  backing  away,  he  turned  and 
clumped  down  the  graveled  path  in  great  and 
embarrassed  haste. 

Judge   Priest   opened   the   bag   and    peered 

down  into  it.     It  contained  a  sticky,  sugary 

" [154]      " 


BOYS      WILL      BE      BOYS 


dozen  of  flattened  confections,  each  moulded 
round  a  short  length  of  wooden  splinter.  These 
sirupy  articles,  which  have  since  come  into  quite 
general  use,  are  known,  I  believe,  as  all-day 
suckers. 

When  Judge  Priest  looked  up  again,  Peep 
O'Day  was  outside  the  gate,  clumping  down  the 
uneven  sidewalk  of  Clay  Street  with  long 
strides  of  his  booted  legs.  Half  a  dozen  small 
boys,  who,  it  was  evident,  had  remained  hidden 
during  the  ceremony  of  presentation,  now 
mysteriously  appeared  and  were  accompanying 
the  departing  donor,  half  trotting  to  keep  up 
with  him. 


[155] 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE   LUCK   PIECE 


UNTIL  now  Trencher — to  give  him 
the  name  by  which  of  all  the  names 
he  used  he  best  was  known — had 
kept  his  temper  in  hobbles,  no  matter 
what  or  how  great  the  provocation.  As  one 
whose  mode  of  livelihood  was  trick  and  device 
outside  the  law  it  had  behooved  him  ever  to 
restrain  himself  from  violent  outbreaks,  to 
school  and  curb  and  tame  his  natural  tendencies 
as  a  horsebreaker  might  gentle  a  spirited  colt. 
A  man  who  held  his  disposition  always  under 
control  could  think  faster  than  any  man  who 
permitted  his  passions  to  jangle  his  nerves. 
Besides,  he  had  the  class  contempt  of  the  high- 
grade  confidence  man — the  same  being  the 
aristocrat  of  the  underworld — for  the  crude 
and  violent  and  therefore  doubly  dangerous 
codes  of  the  stick-up,  who  is  a  highwayman; 
and  the  prowler,  who  is  a  burglar;  and  the  yegg, 
who  is  a  safe  blower  of  sorts. 

Until  now  Trencher  had  held  fast  by  the 
self-imposed  rules  of  his  self-imposed  discipline, 
[156] 


THE      LUCK      PIECE 

and  so  doing  had  lived  well  and  lived  safe.  It 
was  an  unfortunate  thing  all  round  that  this 
little  rat  of  a  Sonntag  had  crossed  him  at  an 
hour  when  he  was  profoundly  irritated  by  the 
collapse  of  their  elaborately  planned  and  ex 
pensive  scheme  to  divest  that  Cheyenne  cattle 
man  of  his  bank  roll  at  the  wire  game.  And  it 
was  a  doubly  unfortunate  thing  for  Sonntag 
seeing  that  Sonntag  had  just  been  shot  three 
times  with  his  own  automatic  and  was  now 
dead  or  should  be. 

It  was  like  Sonntag — and  most  utterly  unlike 
Trencher — to  whine  over  spilt  milk  and  seek 
to  shift  the  blame  for  the  failure  of  their  plot 
to  any  pair  of  shoulders  rather  than  his  own 
thin  pair.  And  to  the  very  life  it  was  like 
Sonntag  that  at  the  climax  of  the  quarrel  he 
should  have  made  a  gun  play.  As  Trencher 
now  realised,  it  had  been  his  mistake  in  the 
first  place  that  he  took  Sonntag  on  for  a  partner 
in  the  thwarted  operation;  but  it  had  been 
Sonntag's  great,  fatal  mistake  that  he  had 
drawn  a  weapon  against  a  man  who  could 
think  faster  and  act  faster  in  emergencies  than 
Sonntag  ever  had  been  able  to  do.  Having 
drawn  it  Sonntag  should  have  used  it.  But 
having  drawn  it  he  had  hesitated  for  a  space 
not  to  be  measured  in  computable  time — and 
that  delay  had  been  his  undoing. 

The  gun-pulling  episode  had  taken  place  in 
Thirty-ninth  Street,  between  Sixth  Avenue 
and  Broadway,  but  nearer  Broadway  than 
[157] 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

Sixth  Avenue,  at  a  moment  when  that  block 
of  Thirty-ninth  Street  was  as  near  empty  as 
ever  it  gets  to  be.  The  meeting  in  the  dark 
ened  place,  just  where  the  portico  at  the  side 
entrance  of  the  old  Jollity  Theatre,  extending 
out  across  the  sidewalk,  made  a  patch  of 
obscurity  in  the  half -lit  street,  had  been  a  meet 
ing  by  chance  so  far  as  Trencher  was  con 
cerned.  He  had  not  been  looking  for  Sonntag; 
hadn't  wanted  to  see  Sonntag.  Whether  Sonn 
tag  had  been  seeking  him  was  something  which 
nobody  probably  would  ever  know  this  side 
the  hereafter. 

To  the  best  of  Trencher's  belief  there  had 
been  but  one  possible  eyewitness  to  the  actual 
shooting.  Out  of  the  tail  of  his  eye,  just  before 
he  and  Sonntag  came  to  grips,  he  had  caught  a 
glimpse  of  this  surmisable  third  party.  He  had 
sensed  rather  than  seen  that  an  elderly  bearded 
man,  perhaps  the  watchman  of  the  closed 
theatre,  passed  along  the  sidewalk,  going  east. 
It  was  Trencher's  impression  that  the  man  had 
gone  on  by  without  halting.  However,  on  that 
point  he  could  not  be  sure.  What  the  onlooker 
had  seen — if  indeed  there  were  an  onlooker — 
could  have  been  only  this :  Two  men,  one  fairly 
tall  and  dressed  in  a  sprightly  fashion,  one  short 
and  dark,  engaged  in  a  vehement  but  whispered 
quarrel  there  in  the  cloaking  shadow  close  up 
to  the  locked  double  doors  of  the  Jollity;  a 
sudden  hostile  move  on  the  part  of  the  slighter 
man,  backing  away  and  reaching  for  his  flank;  a 

[158] 


THE      LUCK      PIECE 

quick  forward  jump  by  the  taller  man  to  close 
with  the  other;  a  short  sharp  struggle  as  the 
pair  of  them  fought  for  possession  of  the  revol 
ver  which  the  dark  man  had  jerked  from  his 
flank  pocket;  then  the  tall  man,  victorious, 
shoving  his  antagonist  clear  of  him  and  stepping 
back  a  pace;  and  on  top  of  this  the  three  sharp 
reports  and  the  three  little  spurts  of  fire  bridg 
ing  the  short  gap  between  the  sundered  enemies 
like  darting  red  hyphens  to  punctuate  the 
enacted  tragedy. 

Now  the  tall  man,  the  one  conspicuously 
dressed,  had  been  Trencher.  The  shooting 
accomplished  he  stood  where  he  was  only  long 
enough  to  see  Sonntag  fold  up  and  sink  down 
in  a  slumped  shape  in  the  doorway.  He  had 
seen  men,  mortally  stricken,  who  folded  up  in 
that  very  same  way;  therefore  he  appraised 
Sonntag  as  one  already  dead,  or  at  least  as  one 
who  would  die  very  speedily. 

As  he  stepped  out  across  the  sidewalk  into 
the  roadway  he  let  the  automatic  fall  along 
side  the  curb.  The  instant  he  had  done  this 
the  heat  of  his  hate  departed  from  him  leaving 
him  cool  and  clear-minded  and  alert.  It  was 
as  though  the  hot  fumes  of  rage  had  all  evapo 
rated  from  his  brain  in  the  same  twentieth  part 
of  a  second  that  he  had  spent  in  discarding  the 
weapon.  For  the  reason  that  he  was  again 
entirely  himself,  resourceful  and  steady,  he  did 
not  fall  into  the  error  of  running  away.  To 
run  away  in  this  instant  was  to  invite  pursuit. 
[159] 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

Instead  he  walked  to  the  middle  of  the  street, 
halted  and  looked  about  him — the  picture  of  a 
citizen  who  had  been  startled  by  the  sound  of 
shots.  This  artifice,  he  felt  sure,  served  to  dis 
arm  possible  suspicion  on  the  part  of  any  one 
of  the  persons  who  came  hurrying  up  from  east 
and  west  and  from  the  north,  across  the  street. 
Two  or  three  of  these  first  arrivals  almost 
brushed  him  as  they  lunged  past,  drawing  in 
toward  the  spot  where  Sonntag's  doubled-up 
body  made  a  darker  blot  in  the  darkened 
parallelogram  beneath  the  portico. 

Trencher  had  been  in  close  places  before 
now — close  places  when  something  smacking 
of  violence  had  occurred — and  he  knew  or  felt 
he  knew  what  next  would  happen  to  give  him 
the  precious  grace  of  seconds  and  perhaps  of 
minutes.  Those  who  came  foremost  upon  the 
scene  would,  through  caution,  hesitate  for  a 
brief  space  of  time  before  venturing  close  up  to 
where  the  hunched  shape  lay.  Then  having 
circled  and  drawn  in  about  the  victim  of  the 
shooting  they  would  for  another  brief  period 
huddle  together,  asking  excited  and  pointless 
questions  of  one  another,  some  of  them  perhaps 
bending  down  and  touching  the  victim  to  see 
whether  he  lived,  some  of  them  looking  round 
for  a  policeman,  some  of  them  doing  nothing  at 
all — except  confusedly  to  get  in  the  way  of 
everybody  else.  This  would  be  true  of  ninety- 
nine  average  individuals  out  of  an  average 
hundred  of  city  population.  But  the  hun- 
[160] 


THE      LUCK      PIECE 


dredth  man  would  keep  his  wits  about  him, 
seeking  for  the  cause  of  the  thing  rather  than 
concerning  himself  with  the  accomplished  effect. 
For  the  moment  it  was  this  hundredth  man 
Trencher  would  have  to  fear.  Nevertheless, 
it  would  never  do  for  him  to  show  undue  haste. 
Bearing  himself  in  the  matter  of  a  disinterested 
citizen  who  had  business  that  was  not  to  be 
interfered  with  by  street  brawls,  he  turned 
away  from  the  south,  toward  which  he  had  been 
looking,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  moving 
briskly,  but  without  any  seeming  great  haste, 
he  made  for  the  revolving  door  at  the  Thirty- 
ninth  Street  entrance  to  Wallinger's  Hotel, 
diagonally  across  from  the  Jollity.  With  one 
hand  on  a  panel  of  the  door  he  stopped  again 
and  looked  back.  j 

Already,  so  soon,  a  crowd  was  gathering  over 
the  way — a  little  crowd — which  at  once  in 
evitably  would  become  a  dense  jostling  crowd. 
A  policeman,  not  to  be  mistaken  even  at  a  dis 
tance  of  seventy  feet  or  more  for  anyone  but  a 
policeman,  had  turned  the  corner  out  of  Broad 
way  and  was  running  down  the  opposite  pave 
ment.  The  policeman's  arrival  was  to  be 
expected;  it  would  be  his  business  to  arrive  at 
the  earliest  possible  moment,  and  having 
arrived  to  lead  the  man  hunt  that  would 
follow.  What  Trencher,  peering  over  his 
shoulder,  sought  for,  was  the  hundredth  man 
— the  man  who,  ignoring  the  lesser  fact  of  a 
dead  ^body,  would  strive  first  off  to  catch 

'"" "       [161] 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

up  the  trail  of  whosoever  had  done  this 
thing. 

Trencher  thought  he  made  him  out.  There 
was  to  be  seen  an  elderly  man,  roughly  dressed, 
possibly  the  same  man  whose  proximity  Tren 
cher  had  felt  rather  than  observed  just  before 
Sonntag  made  the  gun  play,  and  this  man  was 
half-squatted  out  on  the  asphalt  with  his  back 
to  where  the  rest  circled  and  swirled  about  the 
body.  Moreover,  this  person  was  staring 
directly  in  Trencher's  direction.  As  Trencher 
passed  within  the  revolving  door  he  saw  the 
man  pivot  on  his  heels  and  start  at  an  angle 
toward  the  policeman  just  as  the  policeman  was 
swallowed  up  in  the  rings  of  figures  converging 
into  the  theatre  doorway. 

If  the  policeman  were  of  a  common-enough 
type  of  policeman — that  is  to  say,  if  he  were 
the  sort  of  policeman  who  would  waste  time 
examining  Sonntag's  body  for  signs  of  life  and 
then  waste  more  time  asking  questions  of  those 
who  had  preceded  him  to  the  place,  and  yet 
more  time  peering  about  for  the  weapon  that 
had  been  used;  or  if,  in  the  excitement  with 
everybody  shouting  together,  the  one  man  who 
possibly  had  a  real  notion  concerning  the 
proper  description  of  the  vanished  slayer  found 
difficulty  in  securing  the  policeman's  atten 
tion — why  then,  in  any  one  of  these  cases,  or 
better  still,  in  all  of  them,  Trencher  had  a 
chance.  With  a  definite  and  intelligently 
guided  pursuit  starting  forthwith  he  would  be 


THE      LUCK      PIECE 


lost.  But  with  three  minutes,  or  two  even,  of 
delay  vouchsafed  him  before  the  alarm  took 
shape  and  purpose  he  might  make  it. 

Accepting  the  latter  contingency  as  the 
assured  one  he  formed  a  plan  instantaneously. 
Indeed,  it  sprang  full-formed  into  his  mind  as 
the  door  swung  round  behind  him.  It  added 
to  the  immediate  difficulties  of  his  present  situa 
tion  that  he  was  most  notably  marked — by  his 
garb.  He  had  the  dramatic  sense  well  devel 
oped,  as  any  man  must  have  who  succeeds  at 
his  calling.  When  Trencher  played  a  part  he 
dressed  the  part.  In  the  staging  of  the  plot 
for  the  undoing  of  the  Cheyenne  cattleman  his 
had  been  the  role  of  the  sporting  ex-telegraph 
operator,  who  could  get  "flashes"  on  the  result 
of  horse  races  before  the  names  of  the  winners 
came  over  an  imaginary  tapped  wire  to  the 
make-believe  pool  room  where  the  gull  was 
stripped;  and  he  had  been  at  some  pains  and 
expense  to  procure  a  wardrobe  befitting  the 
character. 

The  worst  of  it  was  that  he  now  wore  the 
make-up — the  short  fawn-coloured  overcoat 
with  its  big  showy  buttons  of  smoked  pearl,  the 
brown  derby  hat  with  its  striking  black  band, 
and  the  pair  of  light-tan  spats.  Stripped  of 
these  things  he  would  be  merely  a  person  in  a 
costume  in  nowise  to  be  distinguished  from  the 
costumes  of  any  number  of  other  men  in  the 
Broadway  district.  But  for  the  moment  there 
was  neither  opportunity  nor  time  to  get  rid 
[163] 


FROM      PLACE     TO      PLACE 

of  all  of  them  without  attracting  the  attention 
that  would  be  fatal  to  his  prospects.  Men 
who  have  nothing  to  hide  do  not  remove  spats 
in  a  hotel  lobby,  nor  do  they  go  about  public 
places  bareheaded  in  the  nighttime.  Now  he 
could  do  but  one  thing  to  alter  his  appearance. 

Midway  of  the  cross  hall  which  he  had  entered 
and  which  opened  into  the  main  lobby  he 
slowed  his  gait  long  enough  to  undo  the  over 
coat  and  slip  out  of  it.  The  top  button  caught 
fast  in  its  buttonhole,  the  coat  being  new  and 
its  buttonholes  being  stiff.  He  gave  a  sharp 
tug  at  the  rebellious  cloth,  and  the  button, 
which  probably  had  been  insecurely  sewed  on  in 
the  first  place,  came  away  from  its  thread 
fastenings  and  lodged  in  the  fingers  of  his  right 
hand.  Mechanically  he  dropped  it  into  a  side 
pocket  of  the  overcoat  and  a  moment  later, 
with  the  garment  turned  inside  out  so  that  only 
its  silk  lining  showed,  and  held  under  his  arm, 
he  had  come  out  of  the  sideway  and  was  in  the 
lobby  proper. 

He  was  prepared  mentally  to  find  signs  of  an 
alarm  here — to  encounter  persons  hurrying 
toward  the  Thirty-ninth  Street  side  of  the 
building.  But  nothing  of  the  sort  was  afoot. 
A  darky  orchestra  was  playing  a  jazz  tune  very 
loudly  in  the  cafe  at  the  left  of  the  Broadway 
entrance,  so  it  was  not  only  possible  but  very 
likely  that  the  sounds  of  the  shots  had  not 
been  heard  inside  the  hotel  at  all.  Certainly 
his  eye,  sweeping  the  place,  discovered  no  evi- 
[164] 


THE      LUCK      PIECE 

dences  of  any  unusual  stir.  Perhaps  half  a 
dozen  individuals  were  traversing  the  tiled 
floor,  but  none  of  them  in  any  seeming  hurry. 

With  no  suggestion  of  agitation  about  him 
anywhere  and  with  nothing  furtive  or  stealthy 
in  his  movements,  Trencher  boldly  passed  the 
corner  of  the  desk,  crossed  the  lobby,  went 
along  the  front  of  the  news  stand,  where  a 
young  woman  stood  among  her  wares,  and 
through  another  set  of  revolving  doors  came 
out  upon  Broadway.  It  was  that  one  hour  of 
the  night — a  quarter  of  eleven  o'clock,  while 
the  last  acts  are  still  going  on  and  before  the 
theatres  give  up  their  audiences — when  Broad 
way's  sidewalks  are  not  absolutely  overflowing 
with  jostling,  pouring  currents  of  people. 
Numbers  were  abroad,  for  numbers  always  are 
abroad  in  this  part  of  the  town,  be  the  time  of 
day  or  of  night  what  it  may,  but  there  was  no 
congestion.  This  was  as  it  should  be;  it  suited 
this  man's  purposes  exactly. 

He  issued  forth,  and  a  few  rods  north  of  the 
corner  saw  the  person  for  whom  he  was  seeking; 
at  least  he  saw  a  most  likely  candidate — a 
ragged  darky,  in  a  district  where  ragged  darkies 
unless  they  be  beggars  are  not  often  seen,  who 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  his  coat  collar 
turned  up  was  staring  into  the  window  of  a 
small  clothing  shop  two  doors  above  the 
narrow-fronted  hotel.  Trencher  made  for  him. 
Remember,  all  this — from  the  moment  of  the 

shooting  until  now — had  taken  much  less  time 

_ __ . 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

than  has  been  required  for  me  to  describe  it  in 
sequence  or  for  you  to  read  about  it. 

He  tapped  the  darky  on  the  arm. 

"Boy,"  he  said  sharply,  "want  to  pick  up 
some  easy  money  quick?" 

"Yas,  suh,  I  does!"    The  negro's  eyes  shone. 

"Listen  then:  I've  got  to  catch  a  train — 
sooner  than  I  expected.  My  bag's  packed  and 
waiting  for  me  up  here  at  my  boarding  house 
in  West  Forty-fifth  Street— Number  374  is  the 
address — just  west  of  Broadway — tall  brown- 
stone  house  with  a  high  stoop.  Get  me?  The 
bag's  downstairs  in  the  hall.  The  hall  boy — a 
coloured  fellow  named  Fred — is  watching  it  for 
me.  If  I  go  in  a  cab  I  may  not  get  to  the  station 
in  time.  If  you  go  after  it  for  me  at  a  run  I  may 
catch  my  train.  See?  Here's  a  dollar  down  in 
advance.  Tell  Fred  Mr.  Thompson  sent  you — 
that's  me,  Thompson.  He'll  give  it  to  you — 
I  told  him  I'd  send  for  it.  I'll  be  waiting  right 
here.  If  you  get  back  with  it  in  seven  minutes 
I'll  give  you  another  dollar — and  if  you  get 
back  inside  of  seven  minutes  I'll  make  it  two 
dollars  more.  Got  the  number  in  your  mind?" 

"Yas,  suh— three  seventy-fo'  Wes'  Forty-fift', 
you  said." 

"Correct.  Now  run  like  the  very  devil  up 
Broadway  to  Forty-fifth  and  turn  west!" 

"Boss,"  cried  the  darky,  "Ise  gone!" 

He  was,  too.  His  splay  feet  in  their  broken 
shoes  fairly  spurned  the  sidewalk  as  he  darted 
northward,  boring  his  way  through  the  lanes  of 
[166] 


THE      LUCK      PIECE 


pedestrians,  knocking  people  aside  out  of  their 
stride  and  followed  as  he  went  by  a  wake  of 
curses  and  grunts  and  curious  glances.  On  a 
street  where  nearly  everyone  trots  but  few 
gallop,  the  sight  of  a  running  man  catches  the 
popular  interest  instantly,  the  common  theory 
being  that  the  runner  has  done  something  wrong 
and  is  trying  to  get  away,  else  he  would  not  run. 
The  instant  the  negro  turned  his  back  on 
him,  Trencher  slid  inside  the  recessed  entrance 
of  the  clothing  store  and  flattened  himself 
against  its  door.  If  chance  had  timed  the 
occurrence  just  right  he  would  win  the  reprieve 
that  he  required  for  what  he  meant  next  to 
undertake.  And  sure  enough,  as  it  turned  out, 
chance  had  so  timed  it. 

For  just  as  he  pressed  his  bulk  into  the  recess 
the  man  hunt  manifested  itself.  Bursting 
headlong  out  of  the  front  of  Wallinger's  Hotel 
came  a  policeman — doubtlessly  the  one  already 
seen  by  Trencher — and  just  behind  the  police 
man  a  roughly  dressed  bearded  man,  and  with 
these  two,  at  their  heels,  a  jostling  impetuous 
swarm  of  other  men,  to  be  joined  instantly  by 
yet  more  men,  who  had  run  round  the  corner 
of  the  hotel  from  Thirty -ninth  Street,  instead  of 
passing  through  its  lobby.  For  the  veriest 
fraction  of  time  they  all  slowed  down,  casting 
about  them  with  their  eyes  for  a  trail  to  follow. 

Trencher,  looking  slantwise  to  the  south, 
could  see  them  plainly.  The  foremost  members 

'" [167] 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

of  the  hesitating  and  uncertain  group  were  not 
sixty  feet  from  him.  He  forgot  to  breathe. 

Then,  all  together,  half  a  dozen  pointing 
arms  were  flung  out  to  the  north. 

"There  he  goes,  officer,  runnin'!  See  'im 
yonder?  See  'im?" 

With  a  forward  surge  and  a  great  clatter  of 
feet  the  hunt  was  renewed.  Past  Trencher's 
refuge,  with  never  a  look  this  way  or  that,  the 
policeman,  the  bearded  man,  all  the  rest  of 
them,  went  pelting  along  the  sidewalk,  giving 
tongue  like  beagles.  He  could  have  put  forth 
his  hand  and  touched  some  of  them  as  they 
sped  by  him.  Numbers  of  foot  travellers  joined 
in  the  tail  of  the  chase.  Those  who  did  not 
join  it  faced  about  to  watch.  Knowing  that 
for  a  bit  he  would  practically  be  free  of  the 
danger  of  close  scrutiny,  Trencher  stepped  out 
upon  the  sidewalk  and  looking  north  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  bent  fleeing  figure  scuttling  up 
Broadway  a  block  and  a  half  beyond. 

By  this  trick  he  had  broken  the  trail  and  sent 
the  pack  off  on  a  wrong  scent.  So  far  so  good. 
He  figured  the  outlook  after  this  fashion:  Set 
upon  earning  the  double  fee  promised  him  the 
deluded  darky,  as  he  could  tell,  was  still  going 
at  top  speed,  unconscious  of  any  pursuit.  If 
he  continued  to  maintain  his  gait,  if  none 
tripped  him,  the  probabilities  were  he  would 
be  round  the  corner  in  Forty -fifth  Street,  trying 
to  find  a  mythical  boarding  house  and  a  mythi- 
cal  hall  boy  named  Fred,  before  the  foremost 
[168] 


THE      LUCK      PIECE 


of  the  runners  behind  overtook  and  seized  him. 
Then  would  follow  shouts,  yells,  a  babble  of 
accusations,  denials  of  all  wrongful  intent  by 
the  frightened  captive  and  explanations  by 
him  to  the  policeman  of  his  reason  for  running 
so  hard. 

Following  on  this  the  chase  would  double 
back  on  its  tracks,  and  at  once  policemen  in 
numbers,  along  with  volunteers,  would  be  comb 
ing  the  district  for  the  real  fugitive.  Still, 
barring  the  unforeseen,  a  few  minutes  must  in 
tervene  before  this  neighbourhood  search  would 
be  getting  under  way;  and  meanwhile  the  real 
fugitive,  calmly  enough,  was  moving  along  in 
the  rear  of  the  rearmost  of  those  who  ran  with 
out  knowing  why  they  ran.  He  did  not  go  far 
though — he  dared  not  go  far.  Any  second  the 
darky  might  be  tackled  and  thrown  by  some 
one  on  ahead,  and  besides  there  might  be  indi 
viduals  close  at  hand  who  had  not  joined  in 
the  hue  and  cry,  but  who  in  some  way  had 
learned  that  the  man  so  badly  wanted  wore 
such-and-such  distinguishing  garments. 

It  was  because  of  this  latter  contingency  that 
Trencher  had  not  tried  to  slip  back  into  Thirty- 
ninth  Street.  That  had  been  his  first  impulse, 
but  he  discarded  the  thought  as  it  came  to  him. 
His  mind  peopled  the  vicinity  immediately 
south  and  east  of  him  with  potential  enemies. 
To  the  north  alone,  in  the  wake  of  the  chase, 
could  he  count  upon  a  hope  of  transient  security, 

and  that  would  last  only  for  so  long  as  the  negro 
__ 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

kept  going.  He  could  not  get  away  from  the 
spot — yet.  And  still  it  would  be  the  height  of 
recklessness  for  him,  dressed  as  he  was,  to  linger 
there.  Temporarily  he  must  bide  where  he 
was,  and  in  this  swarming,  bright-as-day  place 
he  must  find  a  hiding  place  from  which  he  could 
see  without  being  seen,  spy  without  being  spied 
upon  or  suspected  for  what  he  was.  Even  as 
he  calculated  these  obstacles  he  figured  a 
possible  way  out  of  the  double-ended  dilemma, 
or  at  any  rate  he  figured  his  next  step  toward 
safety  from  detection  for  the  moment,  and, 
with  continued  luck,  toward  ultimate  escape 
from  a  perilous  spot  where  now  no  measure  of 
immunity  could  be  either  long-lived  or  de 
pendable. 

I  have  said  he  did  not  go  far  to  reach  sanc 
tuary.  To  be  exact  he  did  not  go  the  length  of 
the  block  between  Thirty -ninth  and  Fortieth. 
He  went  only  as  far  as  the  Clarenden,  newest 
and  smartest,  and,  for  the  time  being,  most 
popular  of  typical  Broadway  cafes,  standing 
three  buildings  north  of  the  clothing  shop,  or  a 
total  distance  from  it,  let  us  say,  of  ninety 
feet.  It  was  while  he  traversed  those  ninety 
feet  that  Trencher  summed  up  the  contingencies 
that  hedged  him  in  and  reached  his  conclusion. 

In  front  of  the  Clarenden  against  the  curbing 
stood  a  short  line  of  waiting  motor  vehicles. 
With  one  exception  they  were  taxicabs.  At 
the  lower  end  of  the  queue,  though,  was  a  vast 
gaudy  limousine,  a  bright  blue  in  body  colour, 
[170] 


THE      LUCK      PIECE 


with  heavy  trimmings  of  brass — and  it  was 
empty.  The  chauffeur,  muffled  in  furs,  sat  in 
his  place  under  the  overhang  of  the  peaked 
roof,  with  the  glass  slide  at  his  right  hand 
lowered  and  his  head  poked  out  as  he  peered  up 
Broadway;  but  the  car  itself,  Trencher  saw, 
contained  no  occupant. 

Trencher,  drawing  up  alongside  the  limousine, 
was  searching  vainly  for  a  monogram,  a  crest 
or  a  name  on  its  varnished  flank  while  he 
spoke. 

"Driver,"  he  said  sharply,  "whose  car  is 
this?" 

"Mr.  O'Gavin's,"  the  chauffeur  answered 
without  turning  to  look  at  the  person  asking 
the  question. 

Trencher  played  a  blind  lead  and  yet  not 
such  a  very  blind  lead  either.  Big  as  New  York 
was  there  was  likely  to  be  but  one  O'Gavin  in 
it  who  would  have  a  car  such  as  this  one 
anchored  in  front  of  the  Clarenden — and  that 
would  be  the  noted  bookmaker.  Trencher 
played  his  card. 

"Jerome  O'Gavin's,  eh?"  he  inquired  casually 
as  though  stating  a  foregone  conclusion. 

"Yes,  sir;  it's  his  car."  And  now  the  driver 
twisted  his  body  and  half-faced  Trencher. 
"Say,  boss,  what's  all  the  row  about  yonder?" 

"Crowd  chasing  a  pickpocket,  I  imagine," 
said  Trencher  indifferently.  Then  putting  a 
touch  of  impatience  in  his  voice:  "Where  is 

Q'Gavin— inside?" 

[171] 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

"Yes,  sir!  Said  he'd  be  ready  to  go  uptown 
at  eleven.  Must  be  near  that  now.'* 

"Pretty  near  it.  I  was  to  meet  him  here  at 
eleven  myself  and  I  thought  I  recognised  his  car." 

"You'll  find  him  in  the  grill,  I  guess,  sir," 
said  the  driver,  putting  into  the  remark  the 
tone  of  deference  due  to  someone  who  was  a 
friend  of  his  employer's.  "I  understood  him 
to  say  he  had  an  appointment  with  some  gentle 
man  there.  Was  it  you?" 

"No,  but  I  know  who  the  gentleman  is," 
said  Trencher.  "The  other  man's  not  such  a 
very  good  friend  of  mine — that's  why  I'd  rather 
wait  outside  for  Jerome  than  to  go  in  there." 
He  made  a  feint  at  looking  at  his  watch. 
"Hum,  ten  minutes  more.  Tell  you  what  I 
think  I'll  do,  driver:  I  think  I'll  just  hop  inside 
the  car  until  O' Gavin  comes  out — better  than 
loafing  on  the  sidewalk,  eh?" 

"Just  as  you  say.  Make  yourself  com 
fortable,  sir.  Shall  I  switch  on  the  lights?" 

"No,  never  mind  the  lights,  thank  you." 
Trencher  was  already  taking  shelter  within  the 
limousine,  making  himself  small  on  the  wide 
back  seat  and  hauling  a  thick  rug  up  over  his 
lap.  Under  the  rug  one  knee  was  bent  upward 
and  the  fingers  of  one  hand  were  swiftly  undoing 
the  buttons  of  one  fawn-coloured  spat.  If  the 
chauffeur  had  chanced  to  glance  back  he  would 
have  seen  nothing  unusual  going  on.  The 
chauffeur,  though,  never  glanced  back.  He 
was  staring  dead  ahead  again. 
[172] 


THE      LUCK      PIECE 


"Say,  boss,  they've  caught  the  pickpocket — 
if  that's  what  he  was,"  he  cried  out  excitedly. 
"They're  bringing  him  back." 

"Glad  they  nailed  him,"  answered  Trencher 
through  the  glass  that  was  between  them. 
He  had  one  spat  off  and  was  now  unfastening 
its  mate. 

"It  looks  like  a  nigger,"  added  the  chauffeur, 
supplying  a  fresh  bulletin  as  the  captive  was 
dragged  nearer.  "It  is  a  nigger!  Had  his 
nerve  with  him,  trying  to  pull  off  a  trick  in  this 
part  of  town." 

Through  the  right-hand  side  window  Tren 
cher  peered  out  as  the  mass  moved  by — in 
front  a  panting  policeman  with  his  one 
hand  gripped  fast  in  the  collar  of  Trencher's 
late  messenger,  and  all  about  the  pair  and 
behind  them  a  jostling,  curious  crowd  of  men 
and  women. 

"De  gen'l'man  dat  sent  me  fur  his  bag  is 
right  down  yere,  I  keeps  tellin'  you,"  Trencher 
heard  the  scared  darky  babbling  as  he  was 
yanked  past  Trencher's  refuge. 

"All  right  then,  show  him  to  me,  that's  all," 
the  officer  was  saying  impatiently. 

The  chauffeur  twisted  about  in  his  place, 
following  the  spectacle  with  his  eyes.  But 
Trencher  had  quit  looking  that  way  and  was 
looking  another  way.  The  centre  of  excite 
ment  had  been  moved  again — instead  of  being 
north  of  him  it  was  now  approximately  ninety 
feet  south,  and  he,  thanks  to  the  shift,  was  once 
173  ~ " "  " 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

more  behind  it.  Peering  through  the  glass  he 
watched  the  entrance  to  the  Clarenden. 

There  he  saw  what  he  wanted  to  see — a  tall 
man  in  a  wide-brimmed  soft  dark  hat  and  a 
long  dark  topcoat  going  up  the  short  flight  of 
steps  that  led  from  the  pavement  into  the 
building.  Trencher  wadded  the  spats  together 
and  rammed  them  down  out  of  sight  between 
the  back  cushion  and  the  under  cushion  of  the 
car  seat,  and  with  his  overcoat  inside  out  on  his 
left  arm  he  opened  the  door  and  stepped  out  of 
the  car.  This  retreat  had  served  his  purpose 
admirably;  it  was  time  to  abandon  it. 

"Changed  my  mind,"  he  said  in  explanation. 
"If  O'Gavin  doesn't  hurry  up  we'll  be  late  for 
an  engagement  we've  got  uptown.  I'm  going 
in  after  him." 

"Yes;  all  right,  sir,"  assented  the  chauffeur 
with  his  attention  very  much  elsewhere. 

In  long  steps  Trencher  crossed  the  sidewalk 
and  ran  up  the  steps  so  briskly  that  he  passed 
through  the  door  at  the  top  of  the  short  flight 
directly  behind  and  almost  touching  the  tall 
man  in  the  dark  hat  and  black  coat.  His  heart 
beat  fast;  he  was  risking  everything  practically 
on  the  possibilities  of  what  this  other  man 
meant  to  do. 

The  other  man  did  exactly  what  Trencher 
was  hoping  he  would  do.  He  turned  left  and 
made  for  the  Clarenden's  famous  Chinese 
lounging  room,  which  in  turn  opened  into  the 
main  restaurant.  Trencher  slipped  nimbly  by 
""""  [174] 


THE      LUCK      PIECE 


his  quarry  and  so  beat  him  to  where  two  young 
women  in  glorified  uniforms  of  serving  maids 
were  stationed  to  receive  wraps  outside  the 
checking  booth;  a  third  girl  was  inside  the 
booth,  her  job  being  to  take  over  checked 
articles  from  her  sister  helpers. 

It  befell  therefore  that  Trencher  surrendered 
his  brown  derby  and  his  short  tan  coat,  received 
a  pasteboard  check  in  exchange  for  them  and 
saw  them  passed  in  over  a  flat  shelf  to  be  put 
on  a  hook,  before  the  other  man  had  been 
similarly  served.  When  the  other,  now  re 
vealed  as  wearing  a  dinner  jacket,  came  through 
the  Orientalised  passageway  into  the  lounge, 
Trencher  was  quite  ready  for  him.  In  his 
life  Trencher  had  never  picked  a  pocket,  but 
as  one  thoroughly  versed  in  the  professionalism 
of  the  crime  world,  in  which  he  was  a  dis 
tinguished  figure,  he  knew  how  the  trick, 
which  is  the  highest  phase  of  the  art  of  the 
pickpocket,  is  achieved. 

The  thing  was  most  neatly  and  most  naturally 
accomplished.  As  the  man  in  the  dinner  coat 
came  just  opposite  him  Trencher,  swinging 
inward  as  though  to  avoid  collision  with  the 
end  of  an  upholstered  couch,  bumped  into 
him,  breast  to  breast. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  in  contrite 
tones  for  his  seeming  awkwardness,  and  as  he 
said  it  two  darting  fingers  and  the  thumb  of  his 
right  hand  found  and  invaded  the  little  slit  of 
the  stranger's  waistcoat  pocket,  whisking  out 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

the  check  which  the  stranger  had  but  a  moment 
before,  with  Trencher  watching,  deposited  there. 

"Granted — no  harm  done,"  said  the  man 
who  had  been  jostled,  and  passed  on  leaving 
Trencher  still  uttering  apologetic  sounds. 
Palming  the  precious  pasteboard,  which  meant 
so  much  to  him,  Trencher  stood  where  he  was 
until  he  saw  the  unsuspecting  victim  pass  on 
through  into  the  cafe  and  join  two  other  men, 
who  got  up  from  a  table  in  the  far  corner  near 
one  of  the  front  windows  to  greet  him. 

Trencher  followed  leisurely  to  where  a  captain 
of  waiters  stood  guard  at  the  opening  in  the 
dividing  partition  between  the  lounge  and  the 
restaurant.  Before  him  at  his  approach  this 
functionary  bowed. 

"Alone,  sir?"  he  inquired  obsequiously. 

"Yes  and  no,"  replied  Trencher;  "I'm  alone 
now  but  I'll  be  back  in  half  an  hour  with  three 
others.  I  want  to  engage  a  table  for  four — not 
too  close  to  the  orchestra."  He  slipped  a  dollar 
bill  into  the  captain's  hand. 

"Very  good,  sir.     What  name,  sir?" 

"Tracy  is  the  name,"  said  Trencher. 

"Quite  so,  sir." 

The  captain  turned  to  serve  a  party  of  men 
and  women,  and  Trencher  fell  back.  He  idled 
back  through  the  Chinese  room,  vigilant  to  note 
whether  any  of  the  persons  scattered  about  it 
were  regarding  him  with  more  than  a  casual 
interest  or,  more  important  still,  whether  any 
there  present  knew  him  personally. 
"  [176] 


THE      LUCK      PIECE 


Reassured  on  this  point  he  stepped  out  of  the 
room  and  along  with  a  quarter  for  a  tip  tendered 
to  one  of  the  maids  the  check  he  had  just  pil 
fered,  meanwhile  studying  her  face  closely  for 
any  signs  that  she  recalled  him  as  one  who  had 
dealt  with  her  within  the  space  of  a  minute  or 
so.  But  nothing  in  her  looks  betrayed  recog 
nition  or  curiosity  as  she  bestirred  herself  to 
reclaim  the  articles  for  which  the  check  was  a 
voucher  of  ownership,  and  to  help  him  into 
them. 

Ten  seconds  later  Trencher,  a  personality 
transformed,  stood  quite  at  his  ease  on  the  top 
step  of  the  flight  outside  the  entrance  to  the 
Clarenden  looking  into  Broadway.  The  long 
dark  overcoat  which  he  now  wore,  a  common 
place  roomy  garment,  fitted  him  as  though  it 
had  been  his  own.  With  its  collar  turned  up 
about  his  cheeks  it  helped  admirably  to  disguise 
him.  The  soft  black  hat  was  a  trifle  large  for 
his  head.  So  much  the  better — it  came  well 
down  over  his  face. 

The  huge  illuminated  hands  of  a  clock  set  in 
the  middle  of  a  winking,  blinking  electric  sign 
a  few  blocks  north,  at  the  triangular  gore  where 
Seventh  Avenue  crosses  Broadway,  told  him 
the  time — six  minutes  of  eleven.  To  Trencher 
it  seemed  almost  that  hours  must  have  passed 
since  he  shot  down  Sonntag,  and  yet  here  was 
proof  that  not  more  than  ten  minutes — or  at 
the  most,  twelve — had  elapsed.  Well,  he  had 
worked  fast  and  with  results  gratifying.  The 

* " ~ [177] 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

spats  that  might  have  betrayed  him  were  safely 
hidden  in  one  place — yonder  between  the  seat 
cushions  of  O' Gavin's  car,  which  stood  where 
he  had  left  it,  not  thirty  feet  distant.  His  tell 
tale  overcoat  and  his  derby  hat  were  safely 
bestowed  in  the  cafe  check  room  behind  him 
awaiting  a  claimant  who  meant  never  to  return. 
Even  if  they  should  be  found  and  identified  as 
having  been  worn  by  the  slayer  of  Sonntag, 
their  presence  there,  he  figured,  would  but  serve 
to  confuse  the  man  hunt.  Broadway's  living 
tides  flowed  by,  its  component  atoms  seemingly 
ignorant  of  the  fact  that  just  round  the  corner 
below  a  man  had  been  done  to  death.  Only 
at  the  intersection  of  Thirty -ninth  Street  was 
there  evidence,  in  the  quick  movement  of 
pedestrians  out  of  Broadway  into  the  cross 
street,  that  something  unusual  served  to  draw 
foot  passengers  off  their  course. 

In  front  of  the  clothing  shop  three  doors 
south  of  him  no  special  congestion  of  traffic 
revealed  itself;  no  scrouging  knot  of  citizens 
was  to  be  seen,  and  by  that  Trencher  reasoned 
that  the  negro  had  been  taken  elsewhere  by  his 
captors — very  probably  to  where  the  body 
would  still  be  lying,  hunched  up  in  the  shadow 
before  the  Jollity's  side  doors.  From  the 
original  starting  point  the  hunt  doubtlessly  was 
now  reorganising.  One  thing  was  certain — it 
had  not  eddied  back  this  far.  The  men  of  the 
law  would  be  working  on  a  confused  basis  yet 
awhile,  anyhow.  And  Trencher  meant  to 
[178] 


THE      LUCK      PIECE 


twistify  the  clews  still  further,  for  all  that  he 
felt  safe  enough  already.  For  the  first  time  a 
sense  of  security  exhilarated  him.  Almost  it 
was  a  sense  of  exultation. 

He  descended  the  steps  and  went  straight 
to  the  nearest  of  the  rank  of  parked  taxicabs. 
Its  driver  was  nowhere  in  sight.  A  carriage 
starter  for  the  cafe,  in  gorgeous  livery,  under 
stood  without  being  told  what  the  tall  muffled- 
up  gentleman  desired  and  blew  a  shrill  blast  on  a 
whistle.  At  that  the  truant  driver  appeared, 
coming  at  a  trot  from  down  the  street. 

"'Scuse  me,  mister,"  he  said  as  he  mounted 
to  his  seat  at  the  wheel.  "Been  a  shootin' 
down  the  street.  Guy  got  croaked,  they  say, 
and  they  can't  find  the  guy  that  croaked  um." 

"Never  mind  the  shooting,"  said  Trencher  as 
he  climbed  into  the  cab,  whose  door  the  starter 
had  opened  for  him. 

"Whereto,  gent?" 

"Harty's  Palm  Garden,"  said  Trencher, 
naming  a  restaurant  a  mile  and  a  half  away, 
straight  up  Broadway.  His  main  thought  now 
was  to  get  entirely  out  of  this  part  of  town. 

Riding  along  uptown  Trencher  explored  the 
pockets  of  the  pilfered  overcoat.  The  search 
produced  a  pair  of  heavy  gloves,  a  wadded 
handkerchief,  two  cigars,  a  box  of  matches, 
and,  last  of  all,  a  triangular  brass  token  in 
scribed  with  a  number  and  a  firm  name.  With 
out  the  imprint  of  the  name  Trencher  would 
have  recognised  it,  from  its  shape  alone.  It 
[179] 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

had  come  from  the  check  room  in  the  upper-tier 
waiting  room  of  the  Grand  Central  Station. 
Discovery  of  it  gave  him  a  new  idea — an  idea 
involving  no  added  risk  but  having  in  it  added 
possibilities  for  insuring  the  ultimate  success 
of  his  get-away.  In  any  event  there  could  be 
neither  harm  nor  enhanced  danger  in  putting  it 
into  execution. 

Therefore,  when  he  had  emerged  from  the 
cab  at  Harty's  and  had  paid  the  fare  and  had 
seen  the  driver  swing  his  vehicle  about  and  start 
off  back  downtown,  he  walked  across  Columbus 
Circle  to  the  west  curve  of  it,  climbed  into 
another  taxicab  and  was  driven  by  way  of 
Fifty-ninth  Street  and  Fifth  Avenue  to  the 
Grand  Central.  Here  at  the  establishment 
of  the  luggage-checking  concessionaire  on  the 
upper  level  of  the  big  terminal  he  tendered  the 
brass  token  to  a  drowsy-eyed  attendant, 
receiving  in  exchange  a  brown-leather  suit  case 
with  letters  stenciled  on  one  end  of  it,  like  this: 

M.  K.  P. 
STAMFORD,  CONN. 

Waving  aside  a  red-capped  negro  porter, 
Trencher,  carrying  the  spoil  of  his  latest  coup, 
departed  via  one  of  the  Vanderbilt  Avenue 
exits.  Diagonally  across  the  avenue  was  a 
small  drug  store  still  open  for  business  at  this 
hour,  as  the  bright  lights  within  proved.  Above 
its  door  showed  the  small  blue  sign  that  marked 
[180] 


THE      LUCK     PIECE 


it  as  containing  a  telephone  pay  booth.  For 
Trencher's  purposes  a  closed  booth  in  a  small 
mercantile  establishment  was  infinitely  to  be 
preferred  to  the  public  exchange  in  the  ter 
minal — less  chance  that  the  call  could  be  traced 
back  to  its  source,  less  chance,  too,  that  some 
inquisitive  operator,  trying  to  kill  time  during 
a  dull  hour,  might  listen  in  on  the  wire,  and  so 
doing  overhear  things  not  meant  for  her  ears. 
He  crossed  over  and  entered  the  drug  store. 

Except  for  a  sleepy  clerk  at  the  rear  there 
was  no  one  visible  within  the  place.  Trencher 
crowded  his  bulk  into  the  booth,  dropped  the 
requisite  coin  in  the  slot  and  very  promptly 
got  back  the  answering  hail  from  a  certain 
number  that  he  had  called — a  number  at  a 
place  in  the  lower  fringe  of  the  old  Tenderloin. 

"Is  that  the  Three  Deuces? "  asked  Trencher. 
Then:  "Who's  speaking — you,  Monty?  .  .  . 
Know  who  this  is,  at  this  end?  .  .  .  Yes, 
that's  right.  Say,  is  the  Kid  there — Kid 
Dineen?  .  .  .  Good!  Call  him  to  the  phone, 
will  you,  Monty?  And  tell  him  to  hurry — it's 
devilish  important." 

A  short  pause  followed  and  when  Trencher 
spoke  again  he  had  dropped  his  voice  to  a  cau 
tious  half-whisper,  vibrant  and  tense  with 
urgency.  Also  now  he  employed  some  of  the 
argot  of  the  underworld: 

"Hello,  Kid,  hello!  Recognise  my  voice, 
don't  you?  .  .  .  Good!  Now  listen:  I'm  in  a 
jam.  .  .  .  What?  .  .  .  Never  mind  what  it 

[181]  ™~ 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

is;  you'll  know  when  you  see  the  papers  in  the 
morning  if  you  don't  know  sooner.  I've  got 
to  lam,  and  lam  quick.  Right  now  I've  got  the 
bulls  stalled  off  good  and  proper,  but  I  can't 
tell  how  long  they'll  stay  stalled  off.  Get  me? 
So  I  don't  want  to  be  showing  my  map  round 
any  ticket  windows.  So  here's  what  I  want 
you  to  do.  Get  some  coin  off  of  Monty,  if  you 
haven't  got  enough  on  you.  Then  you  beat  it 
over  to  the  Pennsylvania  Station  and  buy  me 
a  ticket  for  Pittsburgh  and  a  section  in  the 
sleeper  on  the  train  that  leaves  round  one- 
twenty-five  to-night.  Then  go  over  on  Ninth 

Avenue  to  Silver's  place What?   .    .    .  Yes; 

sure,  that's  the  place.  Wait  for  me  there  in 
the  little  room  upstairs  over  the  bar,  on  the 
second  floor.  They've  got  to  make  a  bluff  of 
closing  up  at  one,  but  you  know  how  to  get  up 
into  the  room,  don't  you?  .  .  .  Good!  Wait 
for  me  till  I  show  up,  or  if  I  get  there  first  I'll 
wait  for  you.  I  ought  to  show  inside  of  an 
hour  from  now — maybe  in  less  time  than  that 
if  things  keep  on  breaking  right.  Then  I'll  get 
the  ducats  off  of  you  and  beat  it  across  through 
the  Hudson  Tube  to  the  Manhattan  Transfer 
and  grab  the  rattler  over  there  in  Jersey  when 
she  comes  along  from  this  side.  That'll  be  all. 
Now  hustle!" 

From  the  drug  store  he  went,  carrying  the 
brown  suit  case  with  him,  round  into  Forty- 
second  Street.     He  had  taken  a  mental  note 
of  the  initials  on  the  bag,  but  to  make  sure  he 
[182] 


THE      LUCK      PIECE 


was  right  he  looked  at  them  again  before  he 
entered  the  big  Bellhaven  Hotel  by  its  Forty  - 
second-Street  door.  At  sight  of  him  a  bell  boy 
ran  across  the  lobby  and  took  from  him  his 
burden.  The  boy  followed  him,  a  pace  in  the 
rear,  to  the  desk,  where  a  spruce  young  gentle 
man  awaited  their  coming.  "  Can  I  get  a  room 
with  bath  for  the  night — a  quiet  inside  room 
where  I'll  be  able  to  sleep  as  late  as  I  please  in 
the  morning?"  inquired  Trencher. 

"Certainly,  sir."  The  room  clerk  appraised 
Trencher  with  a  practiced  eye.  "Something 
for  about  four  dollars?" 

f  "That'll  do  very  well/'  agreed  Trencher, 
taking  the  pen  which  the  clerk  had  dipped  in 
ink  and  handed  over  to  him. 

Bearing  in  mind  the  letters  and  the  address 
on  the  suit  case,  Trencher  registered  as  M.  K. 
Potter,  Stamford,  Conn.  Meanwhile  the  clerk 
had  taken  a  key  from  a  rack  containing  a  vast 
number  of  similar  keys. 

"I  won't  leave  a  call — and  I  don't  want  to  be 
disturbed,"  warned  Trencher. 

"Very  well,  sir.  Front!  Show  the  gentle 
man  to  1734."  Five  minutes  later  Trencher, 
in  an  inner  room  on  the  seventeenth  floor,  with 
the  door  locked  on  the  inside,  had  sprung  the 
catch  of  the  brown  suit  case  and  was  spreading 
its  contents  out  upon  the  bed,  smiling  his  satis 
faction  as  he  did  so.  Plainly  fortune  was  favour 
ing  him  at  each  new  turning. 

For  here  was  a  somewhat  rumpled  black  suit 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

and  along  with  it  a  blue-striped  shirt,  showing 
slight  signs  of  recent  wear,  a  turndown  collar 
that  was  barely  soiled,  and  a  plain  black  four- 
in-hand  tie.  Trencher  went  through  the  pock 
ets  of  the  suit,  finding  several  letters  addressed 
to  Marcus  K.  Parker  at  an  address  in  Broad 
Street,  down  in  the  financial  district.  Sewn  in 
the  lining  of  the  inner  breast  pocket  of  the  coat 
was  a  tailor's  label  also  bearing  the  same  name. 
At  the  sight  Trencher  grinned.  He  had  not 
missed  it  very  far.  He  had  registered  as 
Potter,  whereas  now  he  knew  that  the  proper 
owner  of  the  suit  case  must  be  named 
Parker. 

Parker,  he  figured,  belonged  to  the  race  of 
commuters;  evidently  he  lived  in  Stamford 
and  did  business  in  New  York.  Accepting  this 
as  the  correct  hypothesis  the  rest  of  the  riddle 
was  easy  to  read.  Mr.  Parker,  coming  to  town 
that  morning,  had  brought  with  him  his  dinner 
rig  in  a  suit  case. 

Somewhere,  probably  at  his  office,  he  had 
changed  from  his  everyday  garb  to  the  clothes 
he  brought  with  him,  then  he  had  packed  his 
street  clothes  into  the  bag  and  brought  it  up 
town  with  him  and  checked  it  at  the  Grand 
Central,  intending  after  keeping  his  evening 
engagements  to  reclaim  the  baggage  before 
catching  a  late  train  for  Stamford. 

Fine!  Results  from  Trencher's  standpoint 
could  hardly  have  been  more  pleasing.  Exult- 
ing  inwardly  over  the  present  development  and 
"" [184,] 


THE      LUCK      PIECE 

working  fast,  he  stripped  off  his  clothing  down 
to  his  shoes  and  his  undergarments — first, 
though,  emptying  his  own  pockets  of  the 
money  they  contained,  both  bills  and  silver, 
and  of  sundry  personal  belongings,  such  as  a 
small  pocketknife,  a  fountain  pen,  a  condensed 
railway  guide  and  the  slip  of  pasteboard  that 
represented  the  hat  and  coat  left  behind  at  the 
Clarenden.  Then  he  put  on  the  things  that 
had  come  out  of  the  Stamford  man's  bag — the 
shirt,  the  collar  and  the  tie,  and  finally  the 
outer  garments,  incidentally  taking  care  to 
restore  to  Parker's  coat  pocket  all  of  Parker's 
letters. 

This  done  he  studied  himself  in  the  glass  of 
the  chiffonier  and  was  deeply  pleased.  Mir 
rored  there  he  saw  a  different  man  from  the  one 
who  had  rented  the  room.  When  he  quit  this 
hotel,  as  presently  he  meant  to  do,  he  would 
not  be  Trencher,  the  notorious  confidence  man 
who  had  shot  a  fellow  crook,  nor  yet  would  he 
be  the  Thompson  who  had  sent  a  darky  for  a 
bag,  nor  the  Tracy  who  had  picked  a  guest's 
pocket  at  a  fashionable  restaurant,  nor  yet  the 
Potter  who  had  engaged  a  room  with  bath  for  a 
night.  From  overcoat  and  hat  to  shoes  and 
undergarments  he  would  be  Mr.  Marcus  K. 
Parker,  a  thoroughly  respectable  gentleman, 
residing  in  the  godly  town  of  Stamford  and 
engaged  in  reputable  mercantile  pursuits  in 
Broad  Street — with  opened  mail  in  his  pocket 

to  prove  it. 

[185] 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

The  rest  would  be  simplicity.  He  had  merely 
to  slip  out  of  the  hotel,  carrying  the  key  to  1734 
with  him.  Certainly  it  would  be  as  late  as 
noon  the  following  day  before  chambermaid  or 
clerk  tried  to  rouse  the  supposed  occupant  of 
the  empty  room.  In  all  likelihood  it  would  be 
later  than  noon.  He  would  have  at  least  twelve 
hours'  start,  even  though  the  authorities  were 
nimble- witted  enough  to  join  up  the  smaller 
mystery  of  an  abandoned  suit  case  belonging 
to  one  man  and  an  abandoned  outfit  of  clothing 
belonging  to  another,  with  the  greater  and 
seemingly  unconnected  mystery  of  the  vanish 
ment  of  the  suspect  in  the  Sonntag  homicide 
case.  Long  before  this  potential  eventuality 
could  by  any  chance  develop,  he  meant,  under 
another  name  and  in  another  disguise,  to  be 
hidden  away  at  a  quiet  boarding  house  that  he 
knew  of  in  a  certain  obscure  factory  town  on  a 
certain  trolley  line  leading  out  from  Pittsburgh. 

Now  to  clear  out.  He  bestowed  in  various 
pockets  his  money,  his  knife,  his  pen  and  his 
railway  guide,  not  one  of  these  having  upon  it 
any  identifying  marks;  he  pouched  his  small 
change  and  his  roll  of  bills.  Nothing  remained 
to  be  disposed  of  or  accounted  for  save  the 
pasteboard  square  that  represented  the  coat  and 
hat  left  behind  at  the  Clarenden.  When  this 
had  been  torn  into  fine  and  indistinguishable 
bits  and  when  as  a  final  precaution  the  frag 
ments  had  been  tossed  out  of  the  window,  the 
last  possible  evidence  to  link  the  pseudo  Parker 
[186] 


THE      LUCK      PIECE 


with  the  real  Trencher  in  this  night's  trans 
actions  would  be  gone. 

He  had  the  slip  in  his  hands  and  his  fingers 
were  in  the  act  of  twisting  it  in  halves  when  the 
thought  that  something  had  been  overlooked — 
something  vitally  important — came  to  him; 
and  he  paused  to  cogitate.  What  had  been 
forgotten?  What  had  he  overlooked?  What 
had  he  left  undone  that  should  have  been  done? 
Then  suddenly  appreciation  of  the  thing  missing 
came  to  him  and  in  a  quick  panic  of  appre 
hension  he  felt  through  all  the  pockets  of 
Parker's  suit  and  through  the  pockets  of  his 
own  garments,  where  he  had  flung  them  down 
on  the  bed,  alongside  the  rifled  suit  case. 

His  luck  piece  was  gone — that  was  it!  The 
old  silver  trade  dollar,  worn  thin  and  smooth 
by  years  of  handling  and  with  the  hole  drilled 
through  the  centre  of  it — that  was  what  was 
gone — his  token,  his  talisman,  his  charm 
against  evil  fortune.  He  had  carried  it  for 
years,  ever  since  he  had  turned  crook,  and  for 
nothing  in  this  world  would  he  have  parted 
from  it. 

In  a  mounting  flurry  of  superstitious  terror 
he  searched  the  pockets  again,  with  fingers  that 
shook — this  man  who  had  lost  faith  in  human 
beings,  who  had  no  hope  and  no  fear  for  the 
hereafter,  who  had  felt  no  stabs  of  regret  or 
repentance  for  having  killed  a  man,  whose 
thoughts  had  never  known  remorse  for  any 
misdeed  of  his.  The  second  hunt  and  the 
[187] 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

third  and  the  fourth  were  fruitless  as  his  first 
one  had  been;  Trencher's  luck  piece  was  gone. 

Those  wise  men,  the  alienists,  say  that  all 
of  us  are  insane  on  certain  subjects,  however 
sane  we  may  be  upon  other  subjects.  Certainly 
in  the  mental  composition  of  every  one  of  us  is 
some  quirk,  some  vagary,  some  dear  senseless 
delusion,  avowed  or  private.  As  for  Trencher, 
the  one  crotchet  in  his  cool  brain  centred  about 
that  worthless  trade  dollar.  With  it  in  his 
possession  he  had  counted  himself  a  winner, 
always.  Without  it  he  felt  himself  to  be  a 
creature  predestined  and  foreordained  to  dis 
aster. 

To  it  he  gave  all  the  credit  for  the  fact  that 
he  had  never  served  a  prison  sentence.  But 
once,  and  once  only,  had  he  parted  com 
pany  with  it,  even  temporarily.  That  was  the 
time  when  Murtha,  that  crafty  old  Central- 
Office  hand,  had  picked  him  up  on  general 
principles,  had  taken  him  to  headquarters,  and 
first  stripping  him  of  all  the  belongings  on  his 
person,  had  carried  him  to  the  Bertillon  Bureau, 
and  then  and  there,  without  shadow  of  legal 
right,  since  Trencher  was  neither  formally 
accused  of  nor  formally  indicted  for  any  offence 
and  had  no  previous  record  of  convictions, 
had  forced  him  to  undergo  the  ordeals,  ethically 
so  repugnant  to  the  instincts  of  the  professional 
thief,  of  being  measured  and  finger-printed  and 
photographed,  side  face  and  full  face.  He  had 
cursed  and  protested  and  pleaded  when  Murtha 
""  [188] 


THE      LUCK      PIECE 


confiscated  the  luck  piece;  he  had  rejoiced 
when  Murtha,  seeing  no  harm  in  the  thing, 
had  restored  it  to  him  before  lodging  him  in  a 
cell  under  the  all-embracing  technical  charge  of 
being  a  suspicious  person.  Because  he  had  so 
speedily  got  it  back,  Trencher  had  gone  free 
again  with  the  loss  of  but  two  days  of  liberty — 
or  anyway,  so  Trencher  firmly  believed.  But 
because  it  had  left  his  custody  for  no  more  than 
an  hour  his  pictures  were  now  in  the  Gallery, 
and  Murtha  had  learned  the  secret  of  Trencher's 
one  temperamental  weakness,  one  fetish. 

And  now — at  this  time,  of  all  times — it  was 
gone  again.  But  where  had  it  gone?  Where 
could  it  have  gone?  Mentally  he  reconstructed 
all  his  acts,  all  his  movements  since  he  had  risen 
that  morning  and  dressed — and  then  the  solu 
tion  came  to  him,  and  with  the  solution  com 
plete  remembrance.  He  had  slipped  it  into 
the  right-hand  pocket  of  the  new  tan-coloured 
topcoat — to  impregnate  the  garment  with  good 
luck  and  to  enhance  the  prospects  for  a  suc 
cessful  working-out  of  the  scheme  to  despoil 
the  Wyoming  cattleman;  a,nd  he  had  left  it 
there.  And  now  here  he  was  up  on  the  seven 
teenth  floor  of  the  Bellhaven  Hotel  and  the 
fawn-coloured  coat  with  the  luck  piece  in  one 
of  its  pockets  dangled  on  a  hook  in  the  cloak 
booth  of  the  Clarenden  cafe,  less  than  a  block 
away  from  the  spot  where  he  had  shot  Sonntag. 

He  marvelled  that  without  his  talisman  he 
had  escaped  arrest  up  to  now;  it  was  incon- 
[189] 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

ceivable  that  lie  had  won  his  way  thus  far. 
But  then  the  answer  to  that  was,  of  course, 
that  he  had  retained  the  pasteboard  square 
that  stood  for  possession  of  the  coat  itself, 
He  gave  thanks  to  the  unclean  spirits  of  his 
superstition  that  apprehension  of  his  loss  had 
come  to  him  before  he  destroyed  the  slip.  Had 
he  gone  ahead  and  torn  it  up  he  would  now 
count  himself  as  doomed.  But  he  hadn't  torn 
it  up.  There  it  lay  on  the  white  coverlet  of 
the  bed. 

He  must  make  a  try  to  recover  his  luck  piece; 
no  other  course  occurred  to  him.  Trying 
would  be  beset  with  hazards,  accumulated  and 
thickening.  He  must  venture  back  into  the 
dangerous  territory;  must  dare  deadfalls  and 
pitfalls;  must  run  the  chance  of  possible  traps 
and  probable  nets.  By  now  the  police  might 
have  definitely  ascertained  who  it  was  that 
killed  Sonntag;  or  lacking  the  name  of  the 
slayer  they  might  have  secured  a  reasonably 
complete  description  of  him;  might  have  spread 
the  general  alarm  for  a  man  of  such  and  such  a 
height  and  such  and  such  a  weight,  with  such  a 
nose  and  such  eyes  and  such  hair  and  all  the 
rest  of  it.  It  might  be  that  the  Clarenden  was 
being  watched,  along  with  the  other  public 
resorts  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  where  the 
homicide  had  been  committed.  It  might  even 
be  that  back  in  the  Clarenden  he  would  en 
counter  the  real  Parker  face  to  face.  Suppose 
Parker  had  finished  his  supper  and  had  dis- 
[190] 


THE      LUCK      PIECE 

covered  his  loss — losses  rather — and  had  made 
a  complaint  to  the  management;  and  suppose 
as  a  result  of  Parker's  indignation  that  members 
of  the  uniformed  force  had  been  called  in  to 
adjudicate  the  wrangle;  suppose  through  sheer 
coincidence  Parker  should  see  Trencher  and 
should  recognise  the  garments  that  Trencher 
wore  as  his  own.  Suppose  any  one  of  a  half 
dozen  things.  Nevertheless,  he  meant  to  go 
back.  He  would  take  certain  precautions — 
for  all  the  need  of  haste,  he  must  take  them — 
but  he  would  go  back. 

He  put  the  pink  check  into  his  waistcoat 
pocket,  switched  out  the  room  light,  locked 
the  door  of  the  room  on  the  outside,  took  the 
key  with  him  and  went  down  in  an  elevator, 
taking  care  to  avoid  using  the  same  elevator 
that  shortly  before  brought  him  up  to  this 
floor  level.  Presently  he  was  outside  the  hotel, 
hurrying  afoot  on  his  return  to  Broadway. 
On  the  way  he  pitched  the  key  into  an  areaway. 

Turning  out  of  Forty-second  Street  into 
Broadway  and  thence  going  south  to  a  point 
just  below  the  intersection  with  Fortieth  Street, 
he  approached  the  Clarenden  from  the  opposite 
side  of  Broadway.  There  was  motive  in  this. 
One  coming  across  from  the  opposite  side  and 
looking  upward  at  a  diagonal  slant  could  see 
through  the  windows  along  the  front  side  of  the 
Clarenden  with  some  prospect  of  making  out 
the  faces  of  such  diners  as  sat  at  tables  near  the 

windows.     Straining    his    eyes    as    he    crossed 

. 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

over,  Trencher  thought  he  recognised  his  man. 
He  was  almost  sure  he  made  out  the  outlined 
head  and  shoulders  of  Parker  sitting  at  a  corner 
table  alongside  the  last  window  in  the  row. 
He  trusted  he  was  right  and  trusted  still  more 
fervently  that  Parker  would  bide  where  he  was 
for  three  or  four  minutes  longer. 

Tucking  his  head  well  down  inside  his  up 
turned  collar  and  giving  the  brim  of  his  hat  a 
tug  to  bring  it  still  farther  forward  over  his 
eyes,  he  took  a  long  breath,  like  a  man  pre 
paring  for  a  dive  in  cold  water,  and  went  up 
the  flight  of  stairs  from  the  sidewalk  into  the 
building.  No  one  inside  made  as  if  to  halt 
him;  no  one  so  far  as  he  could  tell  gave  him  in 
passing  even  an  impersonal  look.  There  was 
a  wash  room,  as  Trencher  knew,  at  the  back 
end  of  the  ornate  hall  which  separated  the 
Chinese  lounge  and  the  main  cafe  on  one  side, 
from  the  private  dining  rooms  and  tea  rooms 
on  the  other.  That  wash  room  was  his  present 
destination. 

He  reached  it  without  mishap,  to  find  it 
deserted  except  for  a  boy  in  buttons.  To  the 
boy  he  surrendered  hat  and  overcoat,  and  then 
in  the  midst  of  a  feint  at  hitching  up  his  shirt 
cuffs,  as  though  meaning  to  wash  his  hands, 
he  snapped  his  fingers  impatiently. 

"I  forgot  something,"  he  said  for  the  boy's 
benefit;  "left  it  in  the  cafe.  Say,  kid,  watch 
my  hat  and  coat,  will  you?  I'll  be  back  in  a 
minute." 


THE      LUCK      PIECE 

"Yes,  sir,"  promised  the  youth.  "I'll  take 
good  care  of  'em." 

Bareheaded  as  he  now  was  and  lacking  the 
overcoat,  Trencher  realised  the  chief  elements 
of  his  disguise  were  missing ;  still  there  had  been 
for  him  no  other  course  to  follow  than  this 
risky  one.  He  could  not  claim  ownership  of 
one  coat  and  one  hat  while  wearing  another 
coat  and  another  hat — that  was  certain.  As 
he  neared  his  goal  he  noted  that  both  the  maids 
on  the  outside  of  the  booth  were  for  the  instant 
engaged  in  helping  the  members  of  a  group  of 
men  and  women  on  with  their  outdoor  wraps. 
So  much  the  better  for  him.  He  headed 
straight  for  the  third  girl  of  the  force,  the  one 
whose  station  was  within  the  open-fronted 
booth.  In  front  of  her  on  the  flat  shelf  inter 
vening  between  them  he  laid  down  the  num 
bered  pink  slip,  which  in  the  scheme  of  his 
hopes  and  fears  stood  for  so  much. 

"Never  mind  my  hat,  miss,"  he  said,  making 
his  tone  casual;  "I'm  not  through  with  my 
supper  yet.  But  just  let  me  have  my  coat  for 
one  minute,  will  you,  please?  I  want  to  get 
something  out  of  one  of  the  pockets  to  show  to 
a  friend." 

There  was  nothing  unusual,  nothing  uncon 
ventional  about  the  request.  The  girl  glanced 
at  the  figures  on  the  check,  then  stepped  back 
into  her  cuddy,  seeking  among  rows  of  burdened 
hooks  for  whatsoever  articles  would  be  on  the 
hook  bearing  corresponding  figures.  To  Tren- 
[193] 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

cher,  dreading  the  advent  of  the  Stamford 
man  out  of  the  Chinese  room  alongside  him 
and  yet  not  daring  to  turn  his  head  to  look,  it 
seemed  she  was  a  very  long  time  finding  the 
hook.  In  reality  the  time  she  took  was  to  be 
gauged  by  seconds  rather  than  by  minutes. 

"Is  this  the  garment  you  desired,  sir?" 
Speaking  with  an  affected  English  drawl  and 
with  neither  curiosity  nor  interest  in  her  face, 
the  girl  laid  across  her  counter  the  tan-coloured 
overcoat,  one  of  its  big  smoked-pearl  buttons 
glinting  dimly  iridescent  in  the  light  as  she 
spread  it  out. 

"That's  it,  thank  you.  Just  one  moment 
and  I'll  give  it  back  to  you." 

Trencher  strove  to  throttle  and  succeeded 
fairly  well  in  throttling  the  eager  note  in  his 
voice  as  he  took  up  the  coat  by  its  collar  in  his 
left  hand. 

The  fingers  trembled  in  spite  of  him  as  he 
thrust  his  right  hand  into  the  right-hand  pocket. 
Twitching  and  groping  they  closed  on  what  was 
hidden  there — a  slick,  cool,  round,  flat,  thin 
object,  trade-dollar  size.  At  the  touch  of  the 
thing  he  sought  and  for  all,  too,  that  he  stood 
in  such  perilous  case,  Trencher's  heart  jumped 
with  relief  and  gratification.  No  need  for  him 
to  look  to  make  sure  that  he  had  his  luck  piece. 
He  knew  it  by  its  feel  and  its  heft  and  its  size; 
besides  the  tip  of  one  finger,  sliding  over  its 
smooth  rimless  surface,  had  found  in  the  centre 
of  it  the  depression  of  the  worn  hole,  and  the 

.____ 


THE      LUCK      PIECE 

sensitive  nerves  had  flashed  the  news  to  his 
brain.  He  slid  it  into  a  trousers  pocket  and 
passed  the  coat  back  to  the  girl;  and  almost 
before  she  had  restored  it  to  its  appointed 
hook,  Trencher  had  regained  the  shelter 
of  the  wash  room  and  was  repossessing  him 
self  of  the  slouch  hat  and  the  long  black 
overcoat. 

Back  once  more  to  the  street  he  made  the 
journey  safely,  nothing  happening  on  the  way 
out  into  the  November  night  to  alarm  him. 
The  winking,  blinking  electrically  jewelled  clock 
in  the  sign  up  the  street  told  him  it  was  just 
five  minutes  past  midnight.  He  headed  north, 
but  for  a  few  rods  only.  At  Fortieth  Street  he 
turned  west  for  a  short  block  and  at  Seventh 
Avenue  he  hailed  a  south-bound  trolley  car. 
But  before  boarding  the  car  he  cast  a  quick 
backward  scrutiny  along  the  route  he  had 
come.  Cabs  moved  to  and  fro,  shuttle  fashion, 
but  seemingly  no  pedestrians  were  following 
behind  him. 

He  was  not  particularly  fearful  of  being 
pursued.  Since  he  had  cleared  out  from  the 
Clarenden  without  mishap  it  was  scarcely  to 
be  figured  that  anyone  would  or  could  now  be 
shadowing  him.  He  felt  quite  secure  again — 
as  secure  as  he  had  felt  while  in  the  locked  room 
in  the  Bellhaven,  because  now  he  had  in  his 
custody  that  which  gave  him,  in  double  and 
triple  measure,  the  sense  of  assurance.  One 
hand  was  thrust  deep  into  his  trousers  pocket, 

__ 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

where  it  caressed  and  fondled  the  flat  per 
forated  disk  that  was  there.  It  pleased  him 
to  feel  the  thing  grow  warmer  under  his  fingers, 
guaranteeing  him  against  mischance.  He  did 
not  so  much  as  twist  his  head  to  glance  out  of 
the  car  window  as  the  car  passed  Thirty -ninth 
Street. 

At  Thirtieth  Street  he  got  off  the  car  and 
walked  west  to  Silver's  place.  Ninth  Avenue 
was  almost  empty  and,  as  compared  with 
Broadway,  lay  in  deep  shadows.  The  lights 
of  the  bar,  filtering  through  the  filmed  glass  in 
one  window  of  Silver's,  made  a  yellowish  blur 
in  what  was  otherwise  a  row  of  blank,  dead 
house  fronts.  Above  the  saloon  the  squatty 
three-story  building  was  all  dark,  and  from  this 
circumstance  Trencher  felt  sure  he  had  come 
to  the  rendezvous  before  the  Kid  arrived. 
Alongside  the  saloon  door  he  felt  his  way  into 
a  narrow  entryway  that  was  as  black  as  a  coal 
bunker  and  went  up  a  flight  of  wooden  steps  to 
the  second  floor.  At  the  head  of  the  steps  he 
fumbled  with  his  hand  until  he  found  a  door 
knob.  As  he  knew,  this  door  would  not  be 
locked  except  from  the  inside;  unless  it  con 
tained  occupants  it  was  never  locked.  He 
knew,  too,  what  furniture  it  contained — one 
table  and  three  or  four  chairs.  Steering  a 
careful  course  to  avoid  bumping  into  the  table, 
which,  as  he  recalled,  should  be  in  the  middle 
of  the  floor,  he  found  the  opposite  wall  and, 
after  a  moment's  search  with  his  hands,  a  single 
[196] 


THE      LUCK      PIECE 


electric  bulb  set  in  a  wall  bracket.     He  flipped 
on  the  light. 

"That's  right,"  said  a  voice  behind  him. 
"Now  that  you've  got  your  mitts  up,  keep  'em 
up!" 

As  regards  the  position  of  his  hands  Trencher 
obeyed.  He  turned  his  head  though,  and  over 
his  shoulder  he  looked  into  the  middle-aged 
face  of  Murtha,  of  the  Central  Office.  Murtha's 
right  hand  was  in  his  coat  pocket  andjTrencher 
knew  that  Murtha  had  him  covered — through 
the  cloth  of  the  coat. 

"Hello,  Murtha,"  said  Trencher  steadily 
enough,  "what's  the  idea?" 

"The  idea  is  for  you  to  stand  right  where 
you  are  without  making  any  breaks  until  I 
get  through  frisking  you,"  said  Murtha. 

On  noiseless  feet  he  stepped  across  the  floor, 
Trencher's  back  being  still  to  him,  and  one  of 
his  hands,  the  left  one,  with  deft  movements 
shifted  about  over  Trencher's  trunk,  searching 
for  a  weapon. 

"Got  no  gat  on  you,  eh?"  said  Murtha. 
"Well,  that's  good.  Now  then,  bring  your 
hands  down  slow,  and  keep  'em  close  together. 
That's  it — slow.  I'm  taking  no  chances,  under 
stand,  and  you'd  better  not  take  any  either." 

Again  Trencher  obeyed.  Still  standing  be 
hind  him  Murtha  slipped  his  arms  about 
Trencher's  middle  and  found  first  one  of 
Trencher's  wrists  and  then  the  other.  There 
was  a  subdued  clicking  of  steel  mechanisms. 
[  397  ]  


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

"Now  then,"  said  Murtha,  falling  back  a 
pace  or  two,  "I  guess  you  can  turn  round  if 
you  want  to." 

Trencher  turned  round.  He  glanced  at  his 
hands,  held  in  enforced  companionship  by  the 
short  chain  of  the  handcuffs,  and  then  steadily 
at  his  captor. 

"Why  so  fussy,  Murtha?"  he  asked  in  a 
slightly  contemptuous  tone.  "  You  never  heard 
of  me  starting  any  rough  stuff  when  there  was  a 
pinch  coming  off,  did  you?" 

"That's  true,"  said  the  detective;  "but  when 
a  gun's  just  bumped  off  one  guy  he's  liable  to 
get  the  habit  of  bumping  off  other  guys.  Even 
a  swell  gun  like  you  is.  So  that's  why  I've 
been  just  a  trifle  particular." 

"You're  crazy,  man!  Who  says  I  bumped 
anybody  off?" 

"I  do,  for  one,"  replied  Murtha  cheerfully. 
"Still  that's  neither  here  nor  there,  unless  you 
feel  like  telling  me  all  about  what  came  off  over 
in  Thirty -ninth  Street  to-night. 

"You've  always  been  a  safety  player  so  far 
as  I  know — and  I'm  curious  to  know  what  made 
you  start  in  using  a  cannon  on  folks  all  of  a 
sudden.  At  that,  I  might  guess — knowing 
Sonntag  like  I  did." 

"I  don't  know  what  you're  talking 
about,"  parried  Trencher.  "I  tell  you 
you've  got  me  wrong.  You  can't  frame  me 
for  something  I  didn't  do.  If  somebody 
fixed  Sonntag  it  wasn't  me.  I  haven't  seen 
[198] 


THE      LUCK      PIECE 

him  since  yesterday.  I'm  giving  it  to  you 
straight." 

"Oh  well,  we  won't  argue  that  now,"  said 
Murtha  affably.  In  his  manner  was  something 
suggestive  of  the  cat  that  has  caught  the  king 
of  the  rats.  A  tremendous  satisfaction  radiated 
from  him.  "You  can  stall  some  people,  son, 
but  you  can't  stall  me.  I've  got  you  and  I've 
got  the  goods  on  you — that's  sufficient.  But 
before  you  and  me  glide  down  out  of  here 
together  and  start  for  the  front  office  I'd  like 
to  talk  a  little  with  you.  Set  down,  why  don't 
you,  and  make  yourself  comfortable?"  He 
indicated  a  chair. 

Trencher  took  the  chair  and  Murtha,  after 
springing  a  catch  which  he  found  on  the  inner 
side  of  the  door,  sat  down  in  another. 

"I've  got  to  hand  it  to  you,  Trencher,"  went 
on  the  detective  admiringly.  "You  sure  do 
work  swift.  You  didn't  lose  much  time  climb 
ing  into  that  outfit  you're  wearing.  How  did 
you  get  into  it  so  quick?  And,  putting  one 
thing  with  another,  I  judge  you  made  a  good 
fast  get-away  too.  Say,  listen,  Trencher,  you 
might  as  well  come  clean  with  me.  I'll  say 
this  for  Sonntag — he's  been  overdue  for  a 
croaking  this  long  time.  If  I've  got  to  spare 
anybody  out  of  my  life  I  guess  it  might  as  well 
be  him — that's  how  I  stand.  He  belonged  to 
the  Better-Dead  Club  to  start  with,  Sonntag 
did.  If  it  was  self-defence  and  you  can  prove 
it,  I've  got  no  kick  coming.  All  I  want  is  the 
[199] 


FROM      PLACE     TO      PLACE 

credit  for  nailing  you  all  by  my  lonesome.  Why 
not  slip  me  the  whole  tale  now,  and  get  it  off 
your  chest?  You  don't  crave  for  any  of  this 
here  third-degree  stuff  down  at  headquarters, 
and  neither  do  I.  Why  not  spill  it  to  me  now 
and  save  trouble  all  round?" 

His  tone  was  persuasive,  wheedling,  half 
friendly.  Trencher  merely  shook  his  head, 
forcing  a  derisive  grin  to  his  lips. 

"Can  the  bull,  Murtha,"  he  said.  "You 
haven't  got  a  thing  on  me  and  you  know  it." 

"Is  that  so?  Well,  just  to  play  the  game 
fair,  suppose  I  tell  you  some  of  the  things 
I've  got  on  you — some  of  them.  But  before 
I  start  I'm  going  to  tell  you  that  your  big 
mistake  was  in  coming  back  to  where  you'd 
left  that  nice  new  yellow  overcoat  of  yours. 
Interested,  eh?"  he  said,  reading  the  expression 
that  came  into  Trencher's  face  in  spite  of 
Trencher's  efforts.  "All  right  then,  I'll  go  on. 
You  had  a  good  prospect  of  getting  out  of  town 
before  daylight,  but  you  chucked  your  chance 
when  you  came  back  to  the  Clarenden  a  little 
while  ago.  But  at  that  I  was  expecting  you; 
in  fact,  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  I  was 
standing  behind  some  curtains  not  fifteen  feet 
from  that  check  room  when  you  showed  up.  I 
could  have  grabbed  you  then,  of  course,  but 
just  between  you  and  me  I  didn't  want  to  run 
the  risk  of  having  to  split  the  credit  fifty-fifty 
with  any  bull,  in  harness  or  out  of  it,  that  might 
come  butting  in.  The  neighbourhood  was  lousy 
[200] 


THE      LUCK      PIECE 


with  cops  and  plain-clothes  men  hunting  for 
whoever  it  was  that  bumped  off  Sonntag; 
they're  still  there,  I  guess,  hunting  without 
knowing  who  it  is  they're  looking  for,  and 
without  having  a  very  good  description  of  you, 
either.  I  was  the  only  fellow  that  had  the 
right  dope,  and  that  came  about  more  by  acci 
dent  than  anything  else.  So  I  took  a  chance, 
myself.  I  let  you  get  away  and  then  I  trailed 
you — in  a  taxi. 

"All  the  time  you  was  on  that  street  car  I 
was  riding  along  right  behind  you,  and  I  came 
up  these  steps  here  not  ten  feet  behind  you.  I 
wanted  you  all  for  myself  and  I've  got  you  all 
by  myself." 

"You  don't  hate  yourself,  exactly,  do  you?" 
said  Trencher.  "Well,  without  admitting  any 
thing — because  there's  nothing  to  admit — I'd 
like  to  know,  if  you  don't  mind,  how  you  dope 
it  out  that  I  had  anything  to  do  with  Sonntag's 
being  killed — that  is  if  you're  not  lying  about 
him  being  killed?" 

"I  don't  mind,"  said  Murtha  blithely.  "It 
makes  quite  a  tale,  but  I  can  boil  it  down.  I 
wasn't  on  duty  to-night — by  rights  this  was  a 
night  off  for  me.  I  had  a  date  at  the  Clarenden 
at  eleven-thirty  to  eat  a  bite  with  a  brother-in- 
law  of  mine  and  a  couple  of  friends  of  his — a 
fellow  named  Simons  and  a  fellow  named 
Parker,  from  Stamford. 

"I  judge  it's  Parker's  benny  and  dicer  you're 

wearing  now. __ 

__ 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

"  Well,  anyhow,  on  my  way  to  the  Clarenden 
about  an  hour  or  so  ago  I  butt  right  into  the 
middle  of  all  the  hell  that's  being  raised  over 
this  shooting  in  Thirty-ninth  Street.  One  of 
the  precinct  plain-clothes  men  that's  working 
on  the  case  tells  me  a  tall  guy  in  a  brown  derby 
hat  and  a  short  yellow  overcoat  is  supposed  to 
have  pulled  off  the  job.  That  didn't  mean 
anything  to  me,  and  even  if  it  had  I  wouldn't 
have  figured  you  out  as  having  been  mixed  up 
in  it.  Anyway,  it's  no  lookout  of  mine.  So  I 
goes  into  the  Clarenden  and  has  a  rarebit  and  a 
bottle  of  beer  with  my  brother-in-law  and  the 
others. 

"About  half -past  eleven  we  all  start  to  go, 
and  then  this  party,  Parker,  can't  find  his  coat 
check.  He's  sure  he  stuck  it  in  his  vest  pocket 
when  he  blew  in,  but  it  ain't  there.  We  look 
for  it  on  the  floor  but  it's  not  there,  either. 
Then  all  of  a  sudden  Parker  remembers  that  a 
man  in  a  brown  derby,  with  a  coat  turned  inside 
out  over  his  arm,  who  seemed  to  be  in  a  hurry 
about  something,  came  into  the  Clarenden  along 
with  him,  and  that  a  minute  later  in  that 
Chinese  room  the  same  fellow  butts  into  him. 
That  gives  me  an  idea,  but  I  don't  tell  Parker 
what's  on  my  mind.  I  sends  the  head  waiter  for 
the  house  detective,  and  when  the  house  detec 
tive  comes  I  show  him  my  badge,  and  on  the 
strength  of  that  he  lets  me  and  Parker  go  into 
the  cloak  room.  Parker's  hoping  to  find  his 
own  coat  and  I'm  pretending  to  help  him  look 
[  202  ]  "  " "~ 


THE      LUCK      PIECE 

for  it,  but  what  I'm  really  looking  for  is  a 
brown  derby  hat  and  a  short  yellow  coat — and 
sure  enough  I  find  'em.  But  Parker  can't  find 
his  duds  at  all;  and  so  in  putting  two  and  two 
together  it's  easy  for  me  to  figure  how  the 
switch  was  made.  I  dope  it  out  that  the  fellow 
who  lifted  Parker's  check  and  traded  his  duds 
for  Parker's  is  the  same  fellow  who  fixed  Sonn- 
tag's  clock.  Also  I've  got  a  pretty  good  line 
on  who  that  party  is;  in  fact  I  practically  as 
good  as  know  who  it  is. 

"So  I  sends  Parker  and  the  others  back  to 
the  table  to  smoke  a  cigar  and  stick  round 
awhile,  and  I  hang  round  the  door  keeping  out 
of  sight  behind  them  draperies  where  I  can 
watch  the  check  room.  Because,  you  see, 
Trencher,  I  knew  you  were  the  guy  and  I  knew 
you'd  come  back — if  you  could  get  back." 

He  paused  as  though  expecting  a  question, 
but  Trencher  stayed  silent  and  Murtha  kept  on. 

"And  now  I'm  going  to  tell  you  how  I  come 
to  know  you  was  the  right  party.  You  remem 
ber  that  time  about  two  years  ago  when  I  ran 
you  in  as  a  suspect  and  down  at  headquarters 
you  bellyached  so  loud  because  I  took  a  bum 
old  coin  off  of  you?  Well,  when  I  went  through 
that  yellow  overcoat  and  found  your  luck  piece, 
as  you  call  it,  in  the  right-hand  pocket,  I  felt 
morally  sure,  knowing  you  like  I  did,  that  as 
soon  as  you  missed  it  you'd  be  coming  back  to 
try  to  find  it.  And  sure  enough  you  did  come 

back.     Simple,  ain't  it? 

f  203  ]      


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

"The  only  miscalculation  I  made  was  in 
figuring  that  when  you  found  it  gone  from  the 
pocket  you'd  hang  round  making  a  hunt  for  it 
on  the  floor  or  something.  You  didn't  though. 
I  guess  maybe  you  lost  your  nerve  when  you 
found  it  wasn't  in  that  coat  pocket.  Is  that 
right?" 

"But  I  did  find  it!"  exclaimed  Trencher, 
fairly  jostled  out  of  his  pose  by  these  last  words 
from  his  gloating  captor.  "I've  got  it  now!" 

Murtha's  hand  stole  into  his  trousers  pocket 
and  fondled  something  there. 

"What'll  you  bet  you've  got  it  now?"  he 
demanded  gleefully.  "What'll  you  bet?" 

"I'll  bet  my  life—that's  all,"  answered 
Trencher.  "Here,  I'll  show  you!" 

He  stood  up.  Because  his  wrists  were 
chained  he  had  to  twist  his  body  sidewise  before 
he  could  slip  one  hand  into  his  own  trousers 
pocket. 

He  groped  in  its  depths  and  then  brought 
forth  something  and  held  it  out  in  his  palm. 

The  poor  light  of  the  single  electric  bulb 
glinted  upon  an  object  which  threw  off  dulled 
translucent  tints  of  bluish-green — not  a  trade 
dollar,  but  a  big  overcoat  button  the  size  of  a 
trade  dollar — a  flat,  smooth,  rimless  disk  of 
smoked  pearl  with  a  tiny  depression  in  the 
middle  where  the  thread  holes  went  through. 
For  a  little  space  of  time  both  of  them  with 
their  heads  bent  forward  contemplated  it. 

Then  with  a  flirt  of  his  manacled  hands 
" [204] 


THE      LUCK      PIECE 


Trencher  flung  it  away  from  him,  and  with  a 
sickly  pallor  of  fright  and  surrender  stealing 
up  under  the  skin  of  his  cheeks  he  stared  at  the 
detective. 

"You  win,  Murtha,"  he  said  dully.  " What's 
the  use  bucking  the  game  after  your  luck  is 
gone?  Come  on,  let's  go  down-town.  Yes,  I 
bumped  off  Sonntag." 


[205] 


CHAPTER  V 
QUALITY    FOLKS 


IN  OUR  town  formerly  there  were  any 
number  of  negro  children  named  for 
Caucasian  friends  of  their  parents.  Some 
bore  for  their  names  the  names  of  old 
masters  of  the  slavery  time,  masters  who  had 
been  kindly  and  gracious  and  whose  memories 
thereby  were  affectionately  perpetuated;  these 
were  mainly  of  a  generation  now  growing  into 
middle  age.  Others — I  am  speaking  still  of  the 
namesakes,  not  of  the  original  bearers  of  the 
names — had  been  christened  with  intent  to  do 
honour  to  indulgent  and  well-remembered  em 
ployers  of  post-bellum  days.  Thus  it  might 
befall,  for  example,  that  Wadsworth  Junius 
Courtney,  Esquire,  would  be  a  prominent 
advocate  practicing  at  the  local  bar  and  that 
Wadsworth  Junius  Courtney  Jones,  of  colour, 
would  be  his  janitor  and  sweep  out  his  office 
for  him.  Yet  others  had  been  named  after 
white  children — and  soon  after — for  the  reason 
that  the  white  children  had  been  given  first 
names  having  a  fine,  full,  sonorous  sound  or  else 

a  fascinatingly  novel  sound. 

[206]  " 


QUALITY      FOLKS 


Of  these  last  there  were  instances  amounting 
in  the  aggregate  to  a  small  host. 

I  seem  to  remember,  for  example,  that  once  a 
pink  girl-mite  came  into  the  world  by  way  of  a 
bedroom  in  a  large  white  house  on  Tilghman 
Avenue  and  was  at  the  baptismal  font  sen 
tenced  for  life  to  bear  the  Christian  name  of 
Rowena  Hildegarde. 

Or  is  Rowena  Hildegarde  a  Christian  name? 

At  any  rate,  within  twelve  months'  time, 
there  were  to  be  found  in  more  crowded  and  less 
affluent  quarters  of  our  thriving  little  city  four 
more  Rowena  Hildegardes,  of  tender  years,  or 
rather,  tender  months — two  black  ones,  one 
chrome-yellow  one,  and  one  sepia-brown  one. 

But  so  far  as  the  available  records  show  there 
was  but  one  white  child  in  our  town  who  bore 
for  its  name,  bestowed  upon  it  with  due  knowl 
edge  of  the  fact  and  with  deliberate  intent,  the 
name  of  a  person  of  undoubted  African  descent. 
However,  at  this  stage  to  reveal  the  circum 
stances  governing  this  phenomenon  would  be 
to  run  ahead  of  our  tale  and  to  precipitate  its 
climax  before  the  groundwork  were  laid  for  its 
premise.  Most  stories  should  start  at  the 
beginning.  This  one  must. 

From  round  the  left-hand  corner  of  the  house 
came  with  a  sudden  blare  the  sound  of  melody — 
words  and  music — growing  steadily  louder  as 
the  unseen  singer  drew  nearer.  The  music 
was  a  lusty,  deep-volumed  camp-meeting  air, 
[207] 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

with  long-drawn  quavers  and  cadences  in  it. 
The  words  were  as  follows: 

Had  a  lovin9  mother, 

Been  climbin9  up  de  hill  so  long; 

She  been  hopin'  git  to  heaben  in  due  time 

Befo9  dem  heaben  do's  close! 

And  then  the  chorus,  voicing  first  a  passionate 
entreaty,  then  rising  in  the  final  bars  to  a  great 
exultant  shout: 

Den  chain  dot  lion  down,  Good  Lawd! 
Den  chain  dot  lion  down! 

Oh,  please! 

Good  Lawd,  done  chained  dot  lion  down! 
Done  chained  dot  deadly  lion  down! 

Glor-e-e-e! 

The  singer,  still  singing,  issued  into  view,  limp 
ing  slightly — a  wizen  woman,  coal-black  and 
old,  with  a  white  cloth  bound  about  her  head, 
turban  fashion,  and  a  man's  battered  straw  hat 
resting  jauntily  upon  the  knotted  kerchief. 
Her  calico  frock  was  voluminous,  unshapely 
and  starch-clean.  Her  under  lip  was  shoved 
forward  as  though  permanently  twisted  into 
a  spout-shape  by  the  task  of  holding  something 
against  the  gums  of  her  lower  front  teeth,  and 
from  one  side  of  her  mouth  protruded  a  bit  of 
wood  with  the  slivered  bark  on  it.  One  versed 
in  the  science  of  forestry  might  have  recognised 


QUALITY      FOLKS 

the  little  stub  of  switch  as  a  peach-tree  switch; 
one  bred  of  the  soil  would  have  known  its  pur 
pose.  Neither  puckered-out  lip  nor  peach-tree 
twig  seemed  to  interfere  in  the  least  with  her 
singing.  She  flung  the  song  out  past  them — 
over  the  lip,  round  the  twig. 

With  her  head  thrown  away  back,  her  hands 
resting  on  her  bony  hips,  and  her  feet  clunking 
inside  a  pair  of  boys'  shoes  too  large  for  her, 
she, crossed  the  lawn  at  an  angle.  In  all  things 
about  her — in  her  gait,  despite  its  limp,  in  her 
pose,  her  figure — there  was  something  masterful, 
something  dominating,  something  tremendously 
proud.  Considering  her  sparseness  of  bulk  she 
had  a  most  astoundingly  big  strong  voice,  and 
in  the  voice  as  in  the  strut  was  arrogant  pride. 

She  crossed  the  yard  and  let  herself  out  of  a 
side  gate  opening  upon  an  empty  side  street 
and  went  out  of  sight  and  ultimately  out  of 
hearing  down  the  side  street  in  the  hot  sunshine 
of  the  late  afternoon.  But  before  she  was  out 
of  hearing  she  had  made  it  plain  that  not  only 
a  loving  mother  and  a  loving  father,  but  like 
wise  a  loving  brother  and  a  loving  sister,  a  loving 
nephew  and  a  loving  uncle,  a  loving  grand 
mother  and  divers  other  loving  relatives — had 
all  been  engaged  in  the  hill-climbing  pilgrimage 
along  a  lion-guarded  path. 

The  hush  that  succeeded  her  departure  was 
a  profound  hush;  indeed,  by  comparison  with 
the  clamorous  outburst  that  had  gone  before 
it  seemed  almost  ghastly.  Not  even  the 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

shrieks  of  the  caucusing  blue  jays  that  might 
now  be  heard  in  the  oak  trees  upon  the  lawn, 
where  they  were  holding  one  of  their  excited 
powwows,  served  to  destroy  the  illusion  that  a 
dead  quiet  had  descended  upon  a  spot  lately 
racked  by  loud  sounds.  The  well-dressed 
young  man  who  had  been  listening  with  the  air 
of  one  intent  on  catching  and  memorising  the 
air,  settled  back  in  the  hammock  in  which  he 
was  stretched  behind  the  thick  screen  of  vines 
that  covered  the  wide  front  porch  of  the  house. 

"The  estimable  Aunt  Charlotte  appears  to  be 
in  excellent  voice  and  spirits  to-day,"  he  said 
with  a  wry  smile.  "I  don't  know  that  I  ever 
heard  her  when  her  top  notes  carried  farther 
than  they  did  just  now." 

The  slender  black-haired  girl  who  sat  along 
side  him  in  a  porch  chair  winced. 

"It's  perfectly  awful — I  know  it,"  she 
lamented.  "I  suppose  if  Mildred  and  I  have 
asked  her  once  not  to  carry  on  like  that  here 
at  the  front  of  the  house  we've  asked  her  a 
hundred  times.  It's  bad  enough  to  have  her 
whooping  like  a  wild  Indian  in  the  kitchen. 
But  it  never  seems  to  do  any  good." 

"Why  don't  you  try  getting  rid  of  her  alto 
gether  as  a  remedy?"  suggested  the  young  man. 

"Get  rid  of  Aunt  Sharley!  Why,  Harvey- 
why,  Mr.  Winslow,  I  mean — we  couldn't  do 
that!  Why,  Aunt  Sharley  has  always  been 
in  our  family !  Why,  she's  just  like  one  of  us — 

just    like    our    own    flesh    and    blood!     Why, 

__  _.. 


QUALITY     FOLKS 


she  used  to  belong  to  my  Grandmother  Helm 
before  the  war " 

"I  see,"  he  said  dryly,  breaking  in  on  her. 
"She  used  to  belong  to  your  grandmother,  and 
now  you  belong  to  her.  The  plan  of  ownership 
has  merely  been  reversed,  that's  all.  Tell  me, 
Miss  Emmy  Lou,  how  does  it  feel  to  be  a 
human  chattel,  with  no  prospect  of  emanci 
pation?"  Then  catching  the  hurt  look  on  her 
flushed  face  he  dropped  his  raillery  and  has 
tened  to  make  amends.  "Well,  never  mind. 
You're  the  sweetest  slave  girl  I  ever  met — I 
guess  you're  the  sweetest  one  that  ever  lived. 
Besides,  she's  gone — probably  won't  be  back 
for  half  an  hour  or  so.  Don't  hitch  your  chair 
away  from  me — I've  got  something  very 
important  that  I  want  to  tell  you — in  confi 
dence.  It  concerns  you — and  somebody  else. 
It  concerns  me  and  somebody  else — and  yet  only 
two  persons  are  concerned  in  it." 

He  was  wrong  about  the  time,  however, 
truthful  as  he  may  have  been  in  asserting  his 
desire  to  deal  confidentially  with  important 
topics.  Inside  of  ten  minutes,  which  to  him 
seemed  no  more  than  a  minute,  seeing  that  he 
was  in  love  and  time  always  speeds  fast  for  a 
lover  with  his  sweetheart,  the  old  black  woman 
came  hurrying  back  up  the  side  street,  and 
turned  in  at  the  side  gate  and  retraversed  the 
lawn  to  the  back  of  the  old  house,  giving  the 
vine-screened  porch  a  swift  searching  look  as 
she  hobbled  past  its  corner. 

_ fiTTj 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

Her  curiosity,  if  so  this  scrutiny  was  to  be 
interpreted,  carried  her  further.  In  a  minute 
or  two  she  suddenly  poked  her  head  out  through 
the  open  front  door.  She  had  removed  her 
damaged  straw  headgear,  but  still  wore  her 
kerchief.  Hastily  and  guiltily  the  young  man 
released  his  hold  upon  a  slim  white  hand  which 
somehow  had  found  its  way  inside  his  own. 
The  sharp  eyes  of  the  old  negress  snapped. 
She  gave  a  grunt  as  she  withdrew  her  head.  It 
was  speedily  to  develop,  though,  that  she  had 
not  entirely  betaken  herself  away.  Almost 
immediately  there  came  to  the  ears  of  the 
couple  the  creak-creak  of  a  rocking-chair  just 
inside  the  hall,  but  out  of  view  from  their  end 
of  the  porch. 

"Make  the  old  beldam  go  away,  won't  you?" 
whispered  the  man, 

"I'll  try,"  she  whispered  back  rather  ner 
vously.  Then,  raising  her  voice,  she  called  out 
in  slightly  strained,  somewhat  artificial  voice, 
which  to  the  understanding  of  the  annoyed 
young  man  in  the  hammock  appeared  to  have 
almost  a  suggestion  of  apprehension  in  it: 

"Is— is  that  you,  Aunt  Sharley?" 

The  answer  was  little  more  than  a  grunt. 

"Well,  Aunt  Sharley,  hadn't  you  better  be 
seeing  about  supper?" 

"Num'mine  'bout  supper.  Ise  tendin'  to  de 
supper.  Ise  bound  de  supper'll  be  ready  'fo' 
you  two  chillens  is  ready  fur  to  eat  it." 

Within,  the  chair  continued  to  creak  steadily. 
[212] 


QUALITY     FOLKS 


The  girl  spread  out  her  hands  with  a  gesture 
of  helplessness. 

"You  see  how  it  is/'  she  explained  under  her 
breath.  "Auntie  is  so  set  in  her  ways!" 

"And  she's  so  set  in  that  rocking-chair  too," 
he  retorted  grimly.  Saying  what  he  said  next, 
he  continued  to  whisper,  but  in  his  whisper  was 
a  suggestion  of  the  proprietorial  tone.  Also 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  addressed  her 
without  the  prefix  of  Miss  before  her  name. 
This  affair  plainly  was  progressing  rapidly, 
despite  the  handicaps  of  a  withered  black 
duenna  in  the  immediate  offing. 

"Emmy  Lou,"  he  said,  "please  try  again. 
Go  in  there  yourself  and  speak  to  her.  Be  firm 
with  her — for  once.  Make  her  get  away  from 
that  door.  She  makes  me  nervous.  Don't  be 
afraid  of  the  old  nuisance.  This  is  your  house, 
isn't  it — yours  and  your  sister's?  Well,  then, 
I  thought  Southerners  knew  how  to  handle 
darkies.  If  you  can  handle  this  one,  suppose 
you  give  me  a  small  proof  of  the  fact — right 
now!" 

Reluctantly,  as  though  knowing  beforehand 
what  the  outcome  would  be,  Emmy  Lou  stood 
up,  revealing  herself  as  a  straight  dainty  figure 
in  white.  She  entered  the  door.  Outside  in 
the  hammock  Harvey  strained  his  ears  to  hear 
the  dialogue.  His  sweetheart's  voice  came  to 
him  only  in  a  series  of  murmurs,  but  for  him 
there  was  no  difficulty  about  distinguishing  the 
replies,  for  the  replies  were  pitched  in  a  strident, 
[213] 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

belligerent  key  which  carried  almost  to  the 
yard  fence.  From  them  he  was  able  to  guess 
with  the  utmost  accuracy  just  what  arguments 
against  the  presence  of  the  negress  the  girl  was 
making.  This,  then,  was  what  he  heard: 

" .  .  .  Now,  Mizz  Emmy  Lou,  you  mout 
jes'  ez  well  hush  up  an'  save  yore  breath.  You 
knows  an'  I  knows,  even  ef  he  don't  know  it, 
dat  'tain't  proper  fur  no  young  man  to  be 
cotein'  a  young  lady  right  out  on  a  front  po'ch 
widout  no  chaperoner  bein'  clost  by.  Quality 
folks  don't  do  sech  ez  dat.  Dat's  why  I  taken 
my  feet  in  my  hand  an'  come  hurryin'  back 
yere  f 'um  dat  grocery  sto'  where  I'd  done  went 
to  git  a  bottle  of  lemon  extractors.  I  seen  yore 
sister  settin'  in  dat  Mistah  B.  Weil's  candy  sto', 
drinkin'  ice-cream  sody  wid  a  passel  of  young 
folks,  an'  by  dat  I  realise'  I'd  done  lef '  you  'lone 
in  dis  house  wid  a  young  man  dat's  a  stranger 
yere,  an'  so  I  come  right  back.  And  yere  I  is, 
honey,  and  yere  I  stays.  .  .  .  Whut's  dat  you 
sayin'?  DegenTmanobjec's?  He  do,  do  he?" 
The  far-carrying  voice  rose  shrilly  and  scorn 
fully.  "Well,  let  him!  Dat's  his  privilege. 
Jes'  let  him  keep  on  objectin'  long  ez  he's  a 
mind  to.  'Tain't  gwine  'fluence  me  none.  .  .  . 
I  don't  keer  none  ef  he  do  heah  me.  Mebbe  it 
mout  do  him  some  good  ef  he  do  heah  me. 
Hit'll  do  him  good,  too,  ef  he  heed  me,  I  lay  to 
dat.  Mebbe  he  ain't  been  raised  de  way  we 
is  down  yere.  Ef  so,  dat's  his  misfortune." 
The  voice  changed.  "Whut  would  yore  pore 
[214]  


QUALITY     FOLKS 


daid  mother  say  ef  she  knowed  I  wuz  neglectin' 
my  plain  duty  to  you  two  lone  chillen?  Think 
I  gwine  run  ary  chancet  of  havin'  you  two  gals 
talked  about  by  all  de  low-down  pore  w'ite 
trash  scandalisers  in  dis  town?  Well,  I  ain't, 
an'  dat's  flat.  No,  sir-ree,  honey!  You  mout 
jes'  ez  well  run  'long  back  out  dere  on  dat  front 
po'ch,  'ca'se  I'm  tellin'  you  I  ain't  gwine  stir 
nary  inch  f'um  whar  I  is  twell  yore  sister  git 
back  yere." 

Beaten  and  discomfited,  with  one  hand  up  to 
a  burning  cheek,  Emmy  Lou  returned  to  her 
young  man.  On  his  face  was  a  queer  smile. 

"Did — did  you  hear  what  she  said?"  she 
asked,  bending  over  him. 

"Not  being  deaf  I  couldn't  well  help  hearing. 
I  imagine  the  people  next  door  heard  it,  too, 
and  are  no  doubt  now  enjoying  the  joke  of  it." 

"Oh,  I  know  she's  impossible,"  admitted 
Emmy  Lou,  repeating  her  lament  of  a  little 
while  before,  but  taking  care  even  in  her  morti 
fication  to  keep  her  voice  discreetly  down. 
"There's  no  use  trying  to  do  anything  with  her. 
We've  tried  and  tried  and  tried,  but  she  just  will 
have  her  way.  She  doesn't  seem  to  understand 
that  we've  grown  up — Mildred  and  I.  She 
still  wants  to  boss  us  just  as  she  did  when  we 
were  children.  And  she  grows  more  crotchety 
and  more  exacting  every  day." 

"And  I — poor  benighted  Yank  that  I  am — 
came  down  here  filled  with  a  great  and  burning 
sympathy  for  the  down-trodden  African." 
[215] 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

Harvey  said  this  as  though  speaking  to 
himself. 

The  girl  forgot  her  annoyance  in  her  in 
stinct  to  come  to  the  defence  of  her  black 
mentor. 

"Oh,  but  she  has  been  like  a  mother  to  us! 
After  mamma  died  I  don't  know  what  we  should 
have  done — two  girls  left  alone  in  this  old 
house — if  it  hadn't  been  for  Aunt  Sharley. 
She  petted  us,  she  protected  us,  she  nursed  us 
when  we  were  sick.  Why,  Harvey,  she  couldn't 
have  been  more  loyal  or  more  devoted  or  more 
self-sacrificing  than  she  has  been  through  all 
these  years  while  we  were  growing  up.  I  know 
she  loves  us  with  every  drop  of  blood  in  her 
veins.  I  know  she'd  work  her  fingers  to  the 
bone  for  us — that  she'd  die  in  her  tracks  fighting 
for  us.  We  try  to  remember  the  debt  of  grati 
tude  we  owe  her  now  that  she's  getting  old  and 
fussy  and  unreasonable  and  all  crippled  with 
rheumatism." 

She  paused,  and  then,  womanlike,  she  added 
a  qualifying  clause:  "But  I  must  admit  she's 
terribly  aggravating  at  times.  It's  almost 
unbearable  to  have  her  playing  the  noisy  old 
tyrant  day  in  and  day  out.  I  get  awfully  out 
of  patience  with  her." 

Over  on  Franklin  Street  the  town  clock 
struck. 

"Six  o'clock,"  said  Harvey.  Reluctantly  he 
stirred  and  sat  up  in  the  hammock  and  reached 

for  his  hat. 

[216]  


QUALITY     FOLKS 


"I  could  be  induced,  you  know,  if  sufficiently 
pressed,  to  stay  on  for  supper,"  he  hinted.  For 
one  Northern  born,  young  Mr.  Harvey  Winslow 
was  fast  learning  the  hospitable  customs  of  the 
town  of  his  recent  adoption. 

"I'd  love  to  have  you  stay,"  stated  Emmy 
Lou,  "but — but" — she  glanced  over  her  shoul 
der  toward  the  open  door — "but  I'm  afraid  of 
Auntie.  She  might  say  she  wasn't  prepared  to 
entertain  a  visitor — 'not  fixed  fur  company*  is 
the  way  she  would  put  it.  You  see,  she  regards 
you  as  a  person  of  great  importance.  That's 
why  she's  putting  on  so  many  airs  now.  If  it 
was  one  of  the  home  boys  that  I've  known 
always  that  was  here  with  me  she  wouldn't 
mind  it  a  bit.  But  with  you  it's  different,  and 
she's  on  her  dignity — riding  her  high  horse. 
You  aren't  very  much  disappointed,  are  you? 
Besides,  you're  coming  to  supper  to-morrow 
night.  She'll  fuss  over  you  then,  I  know,  and 
be  on  tiptoe  to  see  that  everything  is  just 
exactly  right.  I  think  Auntie  likes  you." 

"Curious  way  she  has  of  showing  it  then," 
said  Harvey.  "I  guess  I  still  have  a  good  deal 
to  learn  about  the  quaint  and  interesting  tribal 
customs  of  this  country.  Even  so,  my  educa 
tion  is  progressing  by  leaps  and  bounds — I  can 
see  that." 

After  further  remarks  delivered  in  a  confi 
dential  undertone,  the  purport  of  which  is  none 
of  our  business,  young  Mr.  Winslow  took  his 

departure  from  the  Dabney  homestead.    Simul- 

___.. 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

taneously  the  vigilant  warder  abandoned  her 
post  in  the  front  hall  and  returned  to  her  special 
domain  at  the  back  of  the  house.  Left  alone, 
the  girl  sat  on  the  porch  with  her  troubled  face 
cupped  in  her  hands  and  a  furrow  of  perplexity 
spoiling  her  smooth  white  brow.  Presently  the 
gate  latch  clicked  and  her  sister,  a  year  and  a 
half  her  junior,  came  up  the  walk.  With  half 
an  eye  anyone  would  have  known  them  for 
sisters.  They  looked  alike,  which  is  another 
way  of  saying  both  of  them  were  pretty  and 
slim  and  quick  in  their  movements. 

"Hello,  sis,"  said  Mildred  by  way  of  greeting. 
She  dropped  into  a  chair,  smoothing  down  the 
front  of  her  white  middy  blouse  and  fanning 
her  flushed  face  with  the  broad  ends  of  her 
sailor  tie.  Then  observing  her  sister's  despon 
dent  attitude:  "What  are  you  in  the  dumps 
about?  Has  that  new  beau  of  yours  turned  out 
a  disappointment?  Or  what?" 

In  a  passionate  little  burst  Emmy  Lou's 
simmering  indignation  boiled  up  and  over 
flowed. 

"Oh,  it's  Aunt  Sharley  again!  Honestly, 
Mil,  she  was  absolutely  unbearable  this  evening. 
It  was  bad  enough  to  have  her  go  stalking  across 
the  lawn  with  that  old  snuff  stick  of  hers  stuck 
in  the  corner  of  her  mouth,  and  singing  that 
terrible  song  of  hers  at  the  very  top  of  her  lungs 
and  wearing  that  scandalous  old  straw  hat 
stuck  up  on  her  topknot — that  was  bad  enough, 
goodness  knows!  I  don't  know  what  sort  of 
[218]  " 


QUALITY      FOLKS 


people  Har — Mr.  Winslow  thinks  we  must  be! 
But  that  was  only  the  beginning." 

Followed  a  recapitulation  of  the  greater 
grievance  against  the  absent  offender.  Before 
Emmy  Lou  was  done  baring  the  burden  of  her 
complaint  Mildred's  lips  had  tightened  in 
angered  sympathy. 

"It  must  have  been  just  perfectly  awfully 
horrible,  Em,"  she  said  with  a  characteristic 
prodigality  of  adjectives  when  the  other  had 
finished  her  recital.  "You  just  ought  to  give 
Aunt  Sharley  a  piece  of  your  mind  about  the 
way  she  behaves.  And  the  worst  of  it  is  she 
gets  worse  all  the  time.  Don't  you  think 
you're  the  only  one  she  picks  on.  Why,  don't 
you  remember,  Em,  how  just  here  only  the 
other  day  she  jumped  on  me  because  I  went  on 
the  moonlight  excursion  aboard  the  Sophie  K. 
Foster  with  Sidney  Baumann? — told  me  right 
to  my  face  I  ought  to  be  spanked  and  put  to 
bed  for  daring  to  run  round  with  'codfish 
aristocracy' — the  very  words  she  used.  What 
right  has  she,  I  want  to  know,  to  be  criticising 
Sidney  Baumann's  people?  I'm  sure  he's  as 
nice  a  boy  as  there  is  in  this  whole  town;  seems 
to  me  he  deserves  all  the  more  credit  for  work 
ing  his  way  up  among  the  old  families  the  way 
he  has.  I  don't  care  if  his  father  was  a  nobody 
in  this  town  when  he  first  came  here. 

"Quality  folks — quality  folks!  She's  always 
preaching  about  our  being  quality  folks  and 
about  it  being  wrong  for  us  to  demean  our- 

~ 


FROM      PLACE     TO      PLACE 

selves  by  going  with  anybody  who  isn't  quality 
folks  until  I'm  sick  and  tired  of  the  words. 
She  has  quality  folks  on  the  brain!  Does  she 
think  we  are  still  babies?  You're  nearly 
twenty-three  and  I'm  past  twenty-one.  We 

have  our  own  lives  to  live.  Why  should  we 
be  so " 

She  broke  off  at  the  sound  of  a  limping  foot 
step  in  the  hall. 

"Supper's  ready,"  announced  Aunt  Sharley 
briefly.  "You  chillen  come  right  in  an'  eat  it 
whilst  it's  hot." 

Strangely  quiet,  the  two  sisters  followed  the 
old  negress  back  to  the  dining  room.  Aunt 
Sharley,  who  had  prepared  the  meal,  now 
waited  upon  them.  She  was  glumly  silent 
herself,  but  occasionally  she  broke,  or  rather 
she  punctuated,  the  silence  with  little  sniffs  of 
displeasure.  Only  once  did  she  speak,  and 
this  was  at  the  end  of  the  supper,  when 
she  had  served  them  with  blackberries  and 
cream. 

"Seem  lak  de  cat  done  got  ever'body's  tongue 
round  dis  place  to-night!"  she  snapped,  address 
ing  the  blank  wall  above  the  older  girl's  head. 
"Well,  'tain't  no  use  fur  nobody  to  be  poutin' 
an'  sullin'.  'Tain't  gwine  do  'em  no  good. 
'Tain't  gwine  budge  me  nary  hair's  brea'th  frum 
whut  I  considers  to  be  my  plain  duty.  Ef 
folkses  don't  lak  it  so  much  de  wuss  fur  dem, 
present  company  not  excepted.  Dat's  my  say 

an'  I  done  said  it!" 

[220] 


QUALITY      FOLKS 


And  out  of  the  room  she  marched  with  her 
head  held  defiantly  high. 

That  night  there  were  callers.  At  the 
Dabney  home  there  nearly  always  were  callers 
of  an  evening,  for  the  two  sisters  were  by  way 
of  being  what  small-town  society  writers  call 
reigning  belles.  Once,  when  they  had  first 
returned  from  finishing  school  the  year  before, 
a  neighbouring  lady,  meeting  Aunt  Sharley  on 
the  street,  had  been  moved  to  ask  whether  the 
girls  had  many  beaus,  and  Aunt  Sharley,  with 
a  boastful  flirt  of  her  under  lip  which  made  her 
side  face  look  something  like  the  profile  of  a 
withered  but  vainglorious  dromedary,  had 
answered  back: 

"Beaus?  Huh!  Dem  chillens  is  got  beaus 
frum  ever'  state!"  Which  was  a  slight  over 
stretching  of  the  real  facts,  but  a  perfectly 
pardonable  and  proper  exaggeration  in  Aunt 
Charlotte's  estimation.  At  home  she  might 
make  herself  a  common  scold,  might  be  pes 
tiferously  officious  and  more  than  pestiferously 
noisy.  Abroad  her  worshipful  pride  in,  and 
her  affection  for,  the  pair  she  had  reared  shone 
through  her  old  black  face  as  though  a  lamp 
of  many  candle  power  burned  within  her.  She 
might  chide  them  at  will,  and  she  did,  holding 
this  to  be  her  prerogative  and  her  right,  but 
whosoever  spoke  slightingly  of  either  of  them  in 
her  presence,  be  the  speaker  black  or  white,  had 
Aunt  Charlotte  to  fight  right  there  on  the  spot; 
she  was  as  ready  with  her  fists  and  her  teeth  to 
[221]  ~"  "" 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

assert  the  right  of  her  white  wards  to  immunity 
from  criticism  as  she  was  with  her  tongue 
lashings. 

These  things  were  all  taken  into  consideration 
when  Emmy  Lou  and  Mildred  came  that  night 
to  balance  the  account  for  and  against  the  old 
woman — so  many,  many  deeds  of  thoughtful- 
ness,  of  kindness,  of  tenderness  on  the  credit 
side;  so  many  flagrant  faults,  so  many  short 
comings  of  temper  and  behaviour  on  the  debit 
page.  The  last  caller  had  gone.  Aunt  Sharley, 
after  making  the  rounds  of  the  house  to  see  to 
door  boltings  and  window  latchings,  had 
hobbled  upstairs  to  her  own  sleeping  quarters 
over  the  kitchen  wing,  and  in  the  elder  sister's 
room,  with  the  lights  turned  low,  the  two  of 
them  sat  in  their  nightgowns  on  the  side  of 
Emmy  Lou's  bed  and  tried  the  case  of  Spinster 
Charlotte  Helm,  coloured,  in  the  scales  of  their 
own  youthful  judgments.  Without  exactly 
being  able  to  express  the  situation  in  words, 
both  realised  that  a  condition  which  verged 
upon  the  intolerable  was  fast  approaching  its 
climax. 

Along  with  the  impatience  of  youth  and  the 
thought  of  many  grievances  they  had  within 
them  a  natural  instinct  for  fairness;  a  legacy 
perhaps  from  a  father  who  had  been  just  and  a 
mother  who  had  been  mercifully  kind  and 
gentle.  First  one  would  play  the  part  of 
devil's  advocate,  the  while  the  other  defended 
the  accused,  and  then  at  the  remembrance  of 
[222  ] 


QUALITY      FOLKS 


some  one  of  a  long  record  of  things  done  or 
said  by  Aunt  Sharley  those  attitudes  would 
be  reversed. 

There  were  times  when  both  condemned  the 
defendant,  their  hair  braids  bobbing  in  em 
phasis  of  the  intensity  of  their  feelings;  times 
when  together  they  conjured  up  recollections 
of  the  everlasting  debt  that  they  owed  her  for 
her  manifold  goodnesses,  her  countless  sacrifices 
on  behalf  of  them.  The  average  Northerner, 
of  whatsoever  social  status,  would  have  been 
hard  put  to  it  either  to  comprehend  the  true 
inwardness  of  the  relationship  that  existed 
between  these  girls  of  one  race  and  this  old 
woman  of  another  or  to  figure  how  there  could 
i>e  but  one  outcome.  The  average  Southerner 
would  have  been  able  at  once  to  sense  the  senti 
ments  and  the  prejudices  underlying  the  dilem 
ma  that  now  confronted  the  orphaned  pair, 
and  to  sympathise  with  them,  and  with  the 
old  negress  too. 

To  begin  with,  there  were  the  fine  things  to 
be  said  for  Aunt  Charlotte;  the  arguments  in  her 
behalf — a  splendid  long  golden  list  of  them 
stretching  back  to  their  babyhood  and  beyond, 
binding  them  with  ties  stronger  almost  than 
blood  ties  to  this  faithful,  loving,  cantankerous, 
crotchety  old  soul.  Aunt  Charlotte  had  been 
born  in  servitude,  the  possession  of  their 
mother's  mother.  She  had  been  their  mother's 
handmaiden  before  their  mother's  marriage. 
Afterward  she  had  been  their  own  nurse, 
[  223  ] 


FROM      PLACE     TO      PLACE 

cradling  them  in  babyhood  on  her  black  breast, 
spoiling  them,  training  them,  ruling  them, 
overruling  them,  too,  coddling  them  when  they 
were  good,  nursing  them  when  they  were  ailing, 
scolding  them  and  punishing  them  when  they 
misbehaved. 

After  their  father's  death  their  mother,  then 
an  invalid,  had  advised  as  frequently  with 
Aunt  Sharley  regarding  the  rearing  of  the  two 
daughters  as  with  the  guardians  who  had  been 
named  in  her  husband's  will — and  with  as 
satisfactory  results.  Before  his  death  their 
father  had  urged  his  wife  to  counsel  with  Aunt 
Sharley  in  all  domestic  emergencies.  Dying, 
he  had  signified  his  affectionate  regard  for  the 
black  woman  by  leaving  her  a  little  cottage  with 
its  two  acres  of  domain  near  the  railroad  tracks. 
Regardless  though  of  the  fact  that  she  was  now 
a  landed  proprietor  and  thereby  exalted  before 
the  eyes  of  her  own  race,  Aunt  Sharley  had 
elected  to  go  right  on  living  beneath  the  Dabney 
roof.  In  the  latter  years  of  Mrs.  Dabney 's  life 
she  had  been  to  all  intents  a  copartner  in  the 
running  of  the  house,  and  after  that  sweet  lady's 
death  she  had  been  its  manager  in  all  regards. 
In  the  simple  economies  of  the  house  she  had 
indeed  been  all  things  for  these  past  few  years — 
housekeeper,  cook,  housemaid,  even  seamstress, 
for  in  addition  to  being  a  poetess  with  a  cook- 
stove  she  was  a  wizard  with  a  needle. 

As  they  looked  back  now,  casting  up  the 
tally  of  the  remembered  years,  neither  Emmy 


QUALITY      FOLKS 


Lou  nor  Mildred  could  recall  an  event  in  all 
their  lives  in  which  the  half-savage,  half- 
childish,  altogether  shrewd  and  competent 
negress  had  not  figured  after  some  fashion  or 
other:  as  foster  parent,  as  unofficial  but  none 
the  less  capable  guardian,  as  confidante,  as 
overseer,  as  dictator,  as  tirewoman  who  never 
tired  of  well-doing,  as  arbiter  of  big  things  and 
little — all  these  roles,  and  more,  too,  she  had 
played  to  them,  not  once,  but  a  thousand  times. 
It  was  Aunt  Sharley  who  had  dressed  them 
for  their  first  real  party — not  a  play-party,  as 
the  saying  went  down  our  way,  but  a  regular 
dancing  party,  corresponding  to  a  debut  in  some 
more  ostentatious  and  less  favoured  commu 
nities.  It  was  Aunt  Sharley  who  had  skimped 
and  scrimped  to  make  the  available  funds  cover 
the  necessary  expenses  of  the  little  household 
in  those  two  or  three  lean  years  succeeding 
their  mother's  death,  when  dubious  invest 
ments,  which  afterward  turned  out  to  be  good 
ones,  had  chiseled  a  good  half  off  their  income 
from  the  estate.  It  was  Aunt  Sharley  who, 
when  the  question  of  going  away  to  boarding 
school  rose,  had  joined  by  invitation  in  the 
conference  on  ways  and  means  with  the  girls' 
guardians,  Judge  Priest  and  Doctor  Lake, 
and  had  cast  her  vote  and  her  voice  in  favour 
of  the  same  old-fashioned  seminary  that  their 
mother  in  her  girlhood  had  attended.  The 
sisters  themselves  had  rather  favoured  an 
Eastern  establishment  as  being  more  fashion- 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

able  and  smarter,  but  the  old  woman  stood 
fast  in  her  advocacy  of  the  other  school.  What 
had  been  good  enough  for  her  beloved  mistress 
was  good  enough  for  her  mistress'  daughters, 
she  insisted;  and,  anyhow,  hadn't  the  quality 
folks  always  gone  there?  Promptly  Doctor 
Lake  and  Judge  Priest  sided  with  her;  and  so 
she  had  her  way  about  this  important  matter, 
as  she  had  it  about  pretty  much  everything 
else. 

It  was  Aunt  Sharley  who  had  indignantly 
and  jealously  vetoed  the  suggestion  that  a 
mulatto  sewing  woman,  famed  locally  for  her 
skill,  should  be  hired  to  assist  in  preparing  the 
wardrobes  that  Emmy  Lou  and  Mildred  must 
take  with  them.  It  was  Aunt  Sharley  who, 
when  her  day's  duties  were  over,  had  sat  up 
night  after  night  until  all  hours,  straining  her 
eyes  as  she  plied  needle  and  scissors,  basting 
and  hemming  until  she  herself  was  satisfied 
that  her  chillen's  clothes  would  be  as  ample  and 
as  ornate  as  the  clothes  which  any  two  girls 
at  the  boarding  school  possibly  could  be  ex 
pected  to  have.  It  was  Aunt  Sharley  who 
packed  their  trunks  for  them,  who  kissed  them 
good-by  at  the  station,  all  three  of  them  being 
in  tears,  and  who,  when  the  train  had  vanished 
down  the  tracks  to  the  southward,  had  gone 
back  to  the  empty  house,  there  to  abide  until 
they  came  home  to  her  again.  They  had 
promised  to  write  to  her  every  week — and 
they  had,  too,  except  when  they  were  too  busy 
[  226] 


QUALITY      FOLKS 


or  when  they  forgot  it.  Finally,  it  was  Aunt 
Sharley  who  never  let  them  forget  that  their 
grandfather  had  been  a  governor  of  the  state, 
that  their  father  had  been  a  colonel  in  the  Con 
federacy,  and  that  they  were  qualified  "to  hole 
up  they  haids  wid  de  fines'  in  de  land." 

When  they  came  to  this  phase  of  the  recapi 
tulation  there  sprang  into  the  minds  of  both  of 
them  a  recollection  of  that  time  years  and 
years  in  the  past  when  Aunt  Sharley,  accom 
panying  them  on  a  Sunday-school  picnic  in  the 
capacity  of  nursemaid,  had  marred  the  fes 
tivities  by  violently  snatching  Mildred  out  of  a 
circle  playing  King  Willyum  was  King  James' 
Son  just  as  the  child  was  about  to  be  kissed  by  a 
knickerbockered  admirer  who  failed  to  measure 
up  to  Aunt  Sharley's  jealous  requirements 
touching  on  quality  folks;  and,  following  this, 
had  engaged  in  a  fight  with  the  disappointed 
little  boy's  coloured  attendant,  who  resented 
this  slur  upon  the  social  standing  of  her  small 
charge.  Aunt  Sharley  had  come  off  victor  in 
the  bout,  but  the  picnic  had  been  spoiled  for  at 
least  three  youngsters.  So  much  for  Aunt 
Sharley's  virtues — for  her  loyalty,  her  devotion, 
her  unremitting  faithfulness,  her  championship 
of  their  destinies,  her  stewardship  over  all  their 
affairs.  Now  to  turn  the  shield  round  and  con 
sider  its  darker  side: 

Aunt  Sharley  was  hardly  a  fit  candidate  for 
canonisation  yet.  Either  it  was  too  early  for 
that — or  it  was  too  late.  She  was  unreasonable, 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

she  was  crotchety,  she  was  contentious,  she 
was  incredibly  intolerant  of  the  opinions  of 
others,  and  she  was  incredibly  hardheaded. 
She  had  always  been  masterful  and  arrogant; 
now  more  and  more  each  day  she  was  becoming 
a  shrew  and  a  tyrant  and  a  wrangler.  She  was 
frightfully  noisy;  she  clarioned  her  hallelujah 
hymns  at  the  top  of  her  voice,  regardless  of 
what  company  might  be  in  the  house.  She 
dipped  snuff  openly  before  friends  of  the  girls 
and  new  acquaintances  alike.  She  refused 
point-blank  to  wear  a  cap  and  apron  when 
serving  meals.  She  was  forever  quarrelling 
with  the  neighbours'  servants,  with  delivery 
boys,  with  marketmen  and  storekeepers.  By 
sheer  obstinacy  she  defeated  all  their  plans  for 
hiring  a  second  servant,  declaring  that  if  they 
dared  bring  another  darky  on  the  place  she 
would  take  pleasure  in  scalding  the  interloper 
with  a  kettle  of  boiling  water.  She  sat  in  self- 
imposed  judgment  upon  their  admirers,  ruth 
lessly  rejecting  those  courtiers  who  did  not 
measure  up  to  her  arbitrary  standards  for 
appraising  the  local  aristocracy;  and  toward 
such  of  the  young  squires  as  fell  under  the  ban 
of  her  disfavour  she  deported  herself  in  such 
fashion  as  to  leave  in  their  minds  no  doubt 
whatsoever  regarding  her  hostility.  In  public 
she  praised  her  wards ;  in  private  she  alternately 
scolded  and  petted  them.  She  was  getting 
more  feeble,  now  that  age  and  infirmities  were 
coming  upon  her,  wherefore  the  house  showed 
"  [228  ]  ~  " 


QUALITY      FOLKS 


the  lack  of  proper  care.  They  were  afraid  of 
her,  though  they  loved  her  with  all  their  hearts 
and  knew  she  loved  them  to  the  exclusion  of 
every  living  person;  they  were  apprehensive 
always  of  her  frequent  and  unrestrained  out 
breaks  of  temper.  She  shamed  them  and  she 
humiliated  them  and  she  curbed  them  in  per 
fectly  natural  impulses — impulses  that  to  them 
seemed  perfectly  proper  also. 

Small  enough  were  these  faults  when  set  up 
alongside  the  tally  of  her  goodnesses ;  moreover, 
neither  of  the  two  rebels  against  her  authority 
was  lacking  in  gratitude.  But  it  is  the  small 
things  that  are  most  annoying  usually,  and, 
besides,  the  faults  of  the  old  woman  were  things 
now  of  daily  occurrence  and  recurrence,  which 
chafed  their  nerves  and  fretted  them,  whereas 
the  passage  of  time  was  lessening  the  senti 
mental  value  of  her  earlier  labours  and  sacrifices 
in  their  behalf. 

And  here  was  another  thing:  While  they  had 
been  getting  older  Aunt  Sharley  had  been 
getting  old;  they  had  grown  up,  overnight,  as 
it  were,  and  she  could  not  be  made  to  compre 
hend  the  fact.  In  their  case  the  eternal  conflict 
between  youth  and  crabbed  age  was  merely 
being  repeated — with  the  addition  in  this  par 
ticular  instance  of  unusual  complications. 

For  an  hour  or  more  the  perplexed  pair 
threshed  away,  striving  to  winnow  the  chaff 
from  the  pure  grain  in  Aunt  Sharley's  nature, 
and  the  upshot  was  that  Emmy  Lou  had  a 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

headache  and  Mildred  had  a  little  spell  of 
crying,  and  they  agreed  that  never  had  there 
been  such  a  paradox  of  part  saint  and  part 
sinner,  part  black  ogre  and  part  black  angel,  as 
their  Auntie  was,  created  into  a  troubled  world, 
and  that  something  should  be  done  to  remedy 
the  evil,  provided  it  could  be  done  without 
grievously  hurting  the  old  woman's  feelings; 
but  just  what  this  something  which  should  be 
done  might  be  neither  of  them  could  decide, 
and  so  they  went  to  bed  and  to  sleep. 

And  the  next  day  was  another  day  exactly 
similar  in  its  petty  annoyances  to  the  day 
before. 

But  a  day  was  to  come  before  the  summer 
ended  when  a  way  out  was  found.  The  person 
who  found  the  way  out — or  thought  he  did — 
was  Mr.  Harvey  Winslow,  the  hero  or  villain 
of  the  hammock  episode  previously  described 
in  this  narrative.  He  did  not  venture,  though, 
to  suggest  a  definite  course  of  action  until  after 
a  certain  moonlit,  fragrant  night,  when  two 
happy  young  people  agreed  that  thereafter 
these  twain  should  be  one. 

Mildred  knew  already  what  was  impending 
in  the  romance  of  Emmy  Lou.  So  perhaps  did 
Aunt  Sharley.  Her  rheumatism  had  not  affect 
ed  her  eyesight  and  she  had  all  her  faculties. 
All  the  same,  it  was  to  Aunt  Sharley  that 
Emmy  Lou  went  next  morning  to  tell  of  the 
choice  she  had  made.  There  was  no  one  whose 
consent  had  actually  to  be  obtained.  Both 
[  230  ] 


QUALITY      FOLKS 


the  girls  were  of  age;  as  their  own  master  they 
enjoyed  the  use  and  control  of  their  cosy  little 
inheritance.  Except  for  an  aunt  who  lived 
in  New  Orleans  and  some  cousins  scattered  over 
the  West,  they  were  without  kindred.  The 
Dabneys  had  been  an  old  family,  but  not  a 
large  one.  Nevertheless,  in  obedience  to  a 
feeling  that  told  her  Aunt  Sharley  should  be 
the  first,  next  only  to  her  sister,  to  share  with 
her  the  happiness  that  had  come  into  her  life, 
Emmy  Lou  sought  out  the  old  woman  before 
breakfast  time. 

Seemingly  Aunt  Sharley  approved.  For  if 
at  the  moment  she  mumbled  out  a  complaint 
about  chillens  too  young  to  know  their  own 
minds  being  prone  to  fly  off  with  the  first  young 
w'ite  genTman  that  came  along  frum  nobody 
knowed  whar,  still  there  was  nothing  begrudged 
or  forced  about  the  vocal  jubilations  with  which 
she  made  the  house  ring  during  the  succeeding 
week.  At  prayer  meeting  on  Wednesday  night 
at  Zion  Coloured  Baptist  Church  and  at  lodge 
meeting  on  Friday  night  she  bore  herself  with 
an  air  of  triumphant  haughtiness  which  sorely 
irked  her  fellow  members.  It  was  agreed 
privily  that  Sis'  Charlotte  Helm  got  mo'  and 
mo'  bigotty,  and  not  alone  that,  but  mo*  and 
mo'  uppety,  ever'  day  she  lived. 

If  young  Mr.  Winslow  had  been,  indirectly, 

the  cause  for  her  pridef ul  deportment  before  her 

own  colour,  it  was  likewise  Mr.  Winslow  who 

shortly  was  to  be  the  instrument  for  humbling 

[231] 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

her  into  the  dust.  Now  this  same  Mr.  Winslow, 
it  should  be  stated,  was  a  masterful  young  man. 
Only  an  abiding  sense  of  humour  kept  him 
sometimes  from  being  domineering.  Along 
with  divers  other  qualities  it  had  taken  master 
fulness  for  him  at  twenty-nine  to  be  superin 
tendent  of  our  street-railway  system,  now 
owned  and  operated  by  Northern  capitalists. 
Likewise  it  had  taken  masterfulness  for  him  to 
distance  the  field  of  Emmy  Lou's  local  ad 
mirers  within  the  space  of  five  short  months 
after  he  procured  his  transfer  to  our  town 
from  another  town  where  his  company  likewise 
had  traction  interests.  He  showed  the  same 
trait  in  the  stand  he  presently  took  with 
regard  to  the  future  status  of  Aunt  Sharley 
in  the  household  of  which  he  was  to  become  a 
member  and  of  which  he  meant  to  be  the  head. 

For  moral  support — which  she  very  seriously 
felt  she  needed — Emmy  Lou  took  her  sister 
with  her  on  the  afternoon  when  she  invaded  the 
kitchen  to  break  the  news  to  Aunt  Sharley. 
The  girls  came  upon  the  old  woman  in  one  of 
her  busiest  moments.  She  was  elbows  deep 
in  a  white  mass  which  in  due  time  would  be 
come  a  batch  of  the  hot  biscuits  of  perfection. 
"Auntie,"  began  Emmy  Lou  in  a  voice  which 
she  tried  to  make  matter-of-fact,  "we've — I've 
something  I  want  to  say  to  you." 

"Ise  lissenin',  chile,"  stated  the  old  woman 
shortly. 

"It's  this  way,  Auntie:  We  think — I  mean 
" [232] 


QUALITY      FOLKS 


we're  afraid  that  you're  getting  along  so  in 
life — getting  so  old  that  we " 

"Who  say  Ise  gittin'  ole?"  demanded  Aunt 
Sharley,  and  she  jerked  her  hands  out  of  the 
dough  she  was  kneading. 

"We  both  think  so — I  mean  we  all  think  so," 
corrected  Emmy  Lou. 

"Who  do  you  mean  by  we  all?  Does  you 
mean  dat  young  Mistah  Winslow,  Esquire, 
late  of  de  North?"  Her  blazing  eyes  darted 
from  the  face  of  one  sister  to  the  face  of  the 
other,  reading  their  looks.  "Uh-huh!"  she 
snorted.  "I  mout  'a'  knowed  he'd  be  de  ver' 
one  to  come  puttin'  sech  notions  ez  dem  in  you 
chillens'  haids.  Well,  ma'am,  an'whut,  pray, 
do  he  want?"  Her  words  fairly  dripped  with 
sarcasm. 

"He  thinks — in  fact  we  all  three  do — that 
because  you  are  getting  along  in  years — you 
know  you  are,  Auntie — and  because  your 
rheumatism  bothers  you  so  much  at  times 
that — that — well,  perhaps  that  we  should  make 
a  change  in  the  running  of  the  house.  So — 
so "  She  hesitated,  then  broke  off  alto 
gether,  anxious  though  she  was  to  make  an  end 
to  what  she  foresaw  must  be  a  painful  scene  for 
all  three  of  them.  Poor  Emmy  Lou  was  finding 
this  job  which  she  had  nerved  herself  to  carry 
through  a  desperately  hard  job.  And  Aunt 
Sharley's  attitude  was  not  making  it  any  easier 
for  her  either. 

"'So'  whut?"  snapped  Aunt  Sharley;  then 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

answered  herself:  "An'  so  de  wind  blow  frum 
dat  quarter,  do  hit?  De  young  genTman  ain't 
j'ined  de  fambly  yit  an'  already  he's  settin' 
hisse'f  to  run  it.  All  right  den.  Go  on,  chile — 
quit  mumblin'  up  yore  words  an'  please  go  on 
an'  tell  me  whut  you  got  to  say!  But  ef  you's 
fixin'  to  bring  up  de  subjec'  of  my  lettin'  ary 
one  of  dese  yere  young  flighty -haided,  flibberti- 
gibbeted,  free-issue  nigger  gals  come  to  work 
on  dis  place,  you  mout  ez  well  save  yore  breath 
now  an'  yereafter,  'ca'se  so  long  ez  Ise  able  to 
drag  one  foot  behine  t'other  I  p'intedly  does 
aim  to  manage  dis  yere  kitchen." 

"It  isn't  that— exactly,"  blurted  out  Emmy 
Lou.  "You  see,  Auntie,"  she  went  on  des 
perately,  "we've  decided,  Harvey  and  I,  that 
after  our  marriage  we'll  live  here.  We  couldn't 
leave  Mildred  alone,  and  until  she  gets  married 
this  is  going  to  be  home  for  us  all.  And  so 
we're  afraid — with  one  more  coming  into  the 
household  and  everything — that  the  added 
work  is  going  to  be  too  heavy  for  you  to  under 
take.  So  we've  decided  that — that  perhaps  it 
would  be  better  all  round  if  you — if  we — if 
you " 

"Go  on,  chile;  say  it,  whutever  it  is." 

" that  perhaps  it  would  be  better  if  you 

left  here  altogether  and  went  to  live  in  that  nice 
little  house  that  papa  left  you  in  his  will." 

Perhaps  they  did  not  see  the  stricken  look 
that  came  into  the  eyes  of  the  old  negress  or 
else  she  hid  the  look  behind  the  fit  of  rage  that 
[234] 


QUALITY     FOLKS 


instantly  possessed  her.  Perhaps  they  mistook 
the  grey  pallor  that  overspread  the  old  face, 
turning  it  to  an  ashen  colour,  for  the  hue  of 
temper. 

"Do  it  all  mean,  den,  dat  after  all  dese  yeahs 
you's  tryin'  to  git  shet  of  me — tryin'  to  t'row 
me  aside  lak  an5  ole  worn-out  broom?  Well, 
I  ain't  gwine  go!"  Her  voice  soared  shrilly  to 
match  the  heights  of  her  tantrum. 

"Your  wages  will  go  on  just  the  same — 
Harvey  insists  on  that  as  much  as  we  do," 
Emmy  Lou  essayed.  "Don't  you  see,  Auntie, 
that  your  life  will  be  easier?  You  will  have 
your  own  little  home  and  your  own  little  garden. 
You  can  come  to  see  us — come  every  day  if  you 
want  to.  We'll  come  to  see  you.  Things  be 
tween  us  will  go  on  almost  exactly  the  same  as 
they  do  now.  You  know  how  much  we  love 
you — Mildred  and  I.  You  know  we  are  trying 
to  think  of  your  comfort,  don't  you?" 

"Of  course  you  do,  Aunt  Sharley,"  Mildred 
put  in.  "It  isn't  as  if  you  were  going  clear  out 
of  our  lives  or  we  out  of  yours.  You'll  be  ever 
so  much  happier." 

"Well,  I  jes'  ain't  gwine  go  nary  step."  The 
defiant  voice  had  become  a  passionate  shriek. 
"Think  Ise  gwine  leave  yere  an'  go  live  in  dat 
little  house  down  dere  by  dem  noisy  tracks 
whar  all  dem  odds  an'  ends  of  pore  w'ite  trash 
lives — dem  scourin's  an'  sweepin's  whut  come 
yere  to  wuk  in  de  new  cotton  mill!  Think  Ise 
gwine  be  corntent  to  wuk  in  a  gyarden  whilst 


FROM      PLACE     TO      PLACE 

I  knows  Ise  needed  right  yere  to  run  dis  place 
de  way  which  it  should  be  run!  Think  Ise 
gwine  set  quiet  whilst  Ise  pulled  up  by  de  roots 
an'  transported  'way  frum  de  house  whar  Ise 
spend  purty  nigh  de  whole  of  my  endurin'  life! 
Well,  I  won't  go — I  won't  never  go!  I  won't 
go — 'ca'se  I  jes'  can't!"  And  then,  to  the 
intense  distress  of  the  girls,  Aunt  Sharley 
slumped  into  a  chair,  threw  her  floury  hands 
over  her  face  and  with  the  big  tears  trickling 
out  between  her  fingers  she  moaned  over  and 
over  again  between  her  gulping  breaths: 

"Oh,  dat  I  should  live  to  see  de  day  w'en  my 
own  chillens  wants  to  drive  me  away  frum  'em! 
Oh,  dat  I  should  live  to  see  dis  day ! " 

Neither  of  them  had  ever  seen  Aunt  Sharley 
weep  like  this—shaken  as  she  was  with  great 
sobs,  her  head  bowed  almost  to  her  knees,  her 
bared  arms  quivering  in  a  very  palsy.  They 
tried  to  comfort  her,  tried  to  put  their  arms 
about  her,  both  of  them  crying  too.  At  the 
touch  of  their  arms  stealing  about  her  hunched 
shoulders  she  straightened,  showing  a  spark  of 
the  spirit  with  which  they  were  more  familiar. 
She  wrenched  her  body  free  of  them  and  pointed 
a  tremulous  finger  at  the  door.  The  two  sisters 
stole  out,  feeling  terribly  guilty  and  thoroughly 
miserable. 

It  was  not  the  Aunt  Sharley  they  knew  who 

waited  upon  them  that  dusk  at  supper.    Rather 

it  was  her  ghost — a  ghost  with  a  black  mask  of 

tragedy  for  a  face,  with  eyes  swollen  and  red- 

[236] 


QUALITY      FOLKS 


dened,  with  lips  which  shook  in  occasional 
spasms  of  pain,  though  their  owner  strove  to 
keep  them  firm.  With  their  own  faces  tear- 
streaked  and  with  lumps  in  their  throats  the 
girls  kept  their  heads  averted,  as  though  they 
had  been  caught  doing  something  very  wrong, 
and  made  poor  pretense  of  eating  the  dishes 
that  the  old  woman  placed  before  them.  Such 
glances  as  they  stole  at  her  were  sidelong 
covert  glances,  but  they  marked  plainly  enough 
how  her  shoulders  drooped  and  how  she  dragged 
herself  about  the  table. 

Within  a  space  of  time  to  be  measured  by 
hours  and  almost  by  minutes  she  seemed  to 
have  aged  years. 

It  was  a  mute  meal  and  a  most  unhappy  one 
for  the  sisters.  More  than  once  Aunt  Sharley 
seemed  on  the  point  of  saying  something,  but 
she,  too,  held  her  tongue  until  they  had  risen  up 
from  their  places.  From  within  the  passage 
way  leading  to  the  rear  porch  she  spoke  then 
across  the  threshold  of  the  door  at  the  back  end 
of  the  dining  room. 

"You,  nur  nobody  else,  can't  turn  me  out  of 
dis  house,"  she  warned  them,  and  in  her  words 
was  the  dead  weight  of  finality.  "An'  ef  you 
does,  I  ain't  gwine  leave  de  premises.  Ise 
gwine  camp  right  dere  on  de  sidewalk  an'  dere 
I  means  to  stay  twell  de  policemens  teks  me  up 
fur  a  vagrom.  De  shame  of  it  won't  be  no 
greater  fur  me  'n  'tis  fur  you.  Dat's  all!" 
And  with  that  she  was  gone  before  they  could 
[237] 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

answer,    if    indeed    they    had    any   answer  to 
make. 

It  was  the  next  day  that  the  Daily  Evening 
News  announced  the  engagement  and  the  date 
of  the  marriage,  which  would  follow  within  four 
weeks.  Congratulations  in  number  were  be 
stowed  upon  Emmy  Lou;  they  came  by  tele 
phone  and  in  letters  from  former  schoolmates, 
but  mainly  they  came  by  word  of  mouth  from 
townspeople  who  trooped  in  to  say  the  things 
which  people  always  say  on  such  occasions — 
such  things,  for  example,  as  that  young  Mr. 
Winslow  should  count  himself  a  lucky  man 
and  that  Emmy  Lou  would  make  a  lovely 
bride;  that  he  should  be  the  proudest  young 
man  in  the  Union  and  she  the  happiest  girl  in 
the  state,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  Under  this 
outpouring  of  kindly  words  from  kindly  folk 
the  recipient  was  radiant  enough  to  all  appear 
ances,  which  was  a  tribute  to  her  powers  as  an 
actress.  Beneath  the  streams  of  her  happiness 
coursed  sombre  undercurrents  of  distress  and 
perplexity,  roiling  the  waters  of  her  joy  and 
her  pride. 

For  nearly  a  week,  with  no  outsider  becoming 
privy  to  the  facts,  she  endured  a  situation 
which  daily  was  marked  by  harassing  ex 
periences  and  which  hourly  became  more 
intolerable.  Then,  in  despair,  seeing  no  way 
out  at  all,  she  went  to  a  certain  old  white  house 
out  on  Clay  Street  to  confide  in  one  to  whom 
many  another  had  turned,  seeking  counsel  in 
[238] 


QUALITY      FOLKS 


the  time  of  trouble.  She  went  to  see  Judge 
William  Pitman  Priest,  and  she  went  alone, 
telling  no  one,  not  even  Mildred,  of  the  errand 
upon  which  she  was  bound. 

The  wide  front  porch  was  empty  where  the 
old  Judge  spent  most  of  his  leisure  hours  when 
the  weather  suited,  and  knowing  as  she  did  the 
custom  of  the  house,  and  being,  for  a  fact, 
almost  as  much  at  home  beneath  its  roof  as 
beneath  her  own,  Emmy  Lou,  without  knock 
ing,  walked  into  the  hall  and  turning  to  the 
right  entered  the  big  sitting  room.  Its  lone 
occupant  sat  up  with  a  jerk,  wiping  the  drowsi 
ness  out  of  his  eyes  with  the  back  of  his  hand. 
He  had  been  taking  a  cat  nap  on  his  ancient 
sofa;  his  long  white  back  hair  was  tousled  up 
comically  behind  his  bald  pink  brow. 

"Why,  hello,  honey!"  he  said  heartily, 
rising  to  his  feet  and  bowing  with  a  quaint 
ceremonial  gesture  that  contrasted  with  and 
yet  somehow  matched  the  homeliness  of  his 
greeting.  "You  slipped  in  so  quiet  on  them 
dainty  little  feet  of  yours  I  never  heared 
you  comin'  a-tall."  He  took  her  small  hands 
in  his  broad  pudgy  ones,  holding  her  off  at 
arm's  length.  "And  don't  you  look  purty! 
Mighty  nigh  any  woman  looks  cool  and  sweet 
when  she's  got  on  white  fixin's,  but  when  a  girl 
like  you  puts  'em  on — well,  child,  there  ain't 
no  use  talkin',  you  shorely  are  a  sight  to  cure 
sore  eyes.  And  you  git  to  favour  your  sweet 

mother  more  and  more  every   day  you  live. 

__ 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

I  can't  pay  you  no  higher  compliment  than 
that.  Set  down  in  that  cheer  yonder,  where 
I  kin  look  at  you  whilst  we  visit." 

"I'd  rather  sit  here  by  you,  sir,  on  the  sofa, 
if  you  don't  mind,"  she  said. 

"Suit  yourself,  honey." 

She  settled  herself  upon  the  sofa  and  he  let 
his  bulky  frame  down  alongside  her,  taking  one 
of  her  hands  into  his.  Her  free  hand  played 
with  one  of  the  big  buttons  on  the  front  of  her 
starched  linen  skirt  and  she  looked,  not  at  him, 
but  at  the  shining  disk  of  pearl,  as  he  said: 

"Well,  Emmy  Lou,  whut  brings  you  'way 
out  here  to  my  house  in  the  heat  of  the  day?" 

She  turned  her  face  full  upon  him  then  and 
he  saw  the  brooding  in  her  eyes  and  gave  her 
hand  a  sympathetic  little  squeeze. 

"Judge,"  she  told  him,  "you  went  to  so 
much  trouble  on  my  account  and  Mildred's 
when  we  were  still  minors  that  I  hate  to  come 
now  worrying  you  with  my  affairs.  But  some 
how  I  felt  that  you  were  the  one  for  me  to  turn 
to." 

"Emmy  Lou,"  he  said  very  gravely,  "your 
father  was  one  of  the  best  men  that  ever  lived 
and  one  of  the  best  friends  ever  I  had  on  this 
earth.  And  no  dearer  woman  than  your  mother 
ever  drawed  the  breath  of  life.  It  was  a  mighty 
proud  day  fur  me  and  fur  Lew  Lake  when  he 
named  us  two  as  the  guardians  of  his  children, 
and  it  was  a  pleasure  to  both  of  us  to  help  look 
to  your  interests  after  he  was  took  from  us. 
[240] 


QUALITY     FOLKS 


Why,  when  your  mother  went  too,  I'd  a'  liked 
the  best  in  the  world  to  have  adopted  you  two 
children  outright."  He  chuckled  a  soft  little 
chuckle.  "I  reckin  I  would  have  made  the 
effort,  too,  only  it  seemed  like  that  old  nigger 
woman  of  yours  appeared  to  have  prior  rights 
in  the  matter,  and  knowin'  her  disposition  I 
was  kind  of  skeered  to  advance  the  suggestion." 

"It  was  about  Aunt  Sharley  that  I  came  to 
see  you  to-day,  Judge  Priest." 

"That  so?  I  had  a  visit  from  her  here  the 
other  day." 

"What  other  day?"  she  asked,  startled. 

"Oh,  it  must  have  been  a  matter  of  three 
weeks  ago — fully.  Shall  I  tell  you  whut  she 
come  to  see  me  about?  You'll  laugh  when 
you  hear  it.  It  tickled  me  right  smartly  at  the 
time.  She  wanted  to  know  what  I  knew  about 
this  here  young  Mr.  Winslow — yes,  that  was  it. 
She  said  all  the  visible  signs  p'inted  to  a  serious 
affair  'twixt  you  two  young  people,  and  she 
said  before  it  went  any  further  she  wanted  to 
know  ef  he  was  the  kind  of  a  young  man  to  be 
gittin'  hisself  engaged  to  a  member  of  the 
Dabney  family,  and  she  wanted  to  know  ef  his 
folks  were  the  real  quality  folks  and  not  this 
here  codfish  aristocracy:  That  was  the  very 
term  she  used — *  codfish  aristocracy.'  Well,  I 
was  able  to  reasshore  her.  You  see,  honey, 
I'd  took  it  on  myself  to  do  a  little  inquirin' 
round  about  Mr.  Winslow  on  my  own  respon- 
sibility — not  that  I  wanted  to  be  pry  in'  into 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

your  business  and  not  because  I  aimed  to  be 
try  in'  to  come  between  you  and  the  young  man 
ef  I  wasn't  altogether  satisfied  with  the  accounts 
I  got  of  him,  but  because  I  loved  you  and 
wanted  to  make  sure  in  my  own  mind  that  Tom 
Dabney's  child  wasn't  makin'  the  wrong 
choice.  You  understand,  don't  you?  You 
see,  ez  fur  back  ez  a  month  and  a  half  ago,  or 
mebbe  even  further  back  than  that,  I  was  kind 
of  given  to  understand  that  you  and  this  young 
man  were  gittin'  deeply  interested  in  each 
other." 

"Why,  how  could  you?"  inquired  Emmy 
Lou.  "We  weren't  even  engaged  then.  Who 
could  have  circulated  such  a  report  about  us?" 

"The  very  first  time  I  seen  you  two  young 
folks  walkin'  up  Franklin  Street  together  you 
both  were  circulatin'  it,"  he  said,  chuckling 
again.  "You  may  not  'a'  knowed  it,  but  you 
were.  I  may  be  gittin'  old,  but  my  eyesight 
ain't  entirely  failed  up  on  me  yit — I  could  read 
the  signs  when  I  was  still  half  a  block  away 
frum  you.  It  was  right  after  that  that  I 
started  my  own  little  private  investigation. 
So  you  see  I  was  qualified  to  reasshore  Aunt 
Sharley.  I  told  her  all  the  available  informa 
tion  on  the  subject  proved  the  young  gentleman 
in  question  was  not  only  a  mighty  clever,  up- 
standin',  manly  young  feller,  but  that  where  he 
hailed  from  he  belonged  to  the  quality  folks, 
which  really  was  the  p'int  she  seemed  most 
anxious  about.  That's  whut  I  told  her,  and  I 
[242]  """" 


QUALITY      FOLKS 


was  monstrous  glad  to  be  able  to  tell  her.  A 
stranger  might  have  thought  it  was  pure  impu 
dence  on  her  part,  but  of  course  we  both  know, 
you  and  me,  whut  was  in  the  back  part  of  her 
old  kinky  head.  And  when  I'd  got  done 
tellin'  her  she  went  down  the  street  from  here 
with  her  head  throwed  away  back,  singin'  till 
you  could  'a'  heard  her  half  a  mile  off,  I  reckin." 

"I  never  guessed  it.  She  never  told  me  she'd 
been  to  see  you.  And  you  didn't  tell  me,  either, 
when  you  came  the  other  night  to  wish  me  joy, 
Judge." 

"I  kind  of  Jiggered  she  wanted  the  matter 
treated  confidential,"  explained  Judge  Priest. 
"So  I  respected  whut  I  took  to  be  her  wishes  in 
the  matter.  But  wasn't  it  fur  all  the  world  jest 
like  that  old  black  woman?" 

"Yes,  it  was  just  like  her,"  agreed  Emmy 
Lou,  her  face  shadowed  with  deepening  dis 
tress.  "And  because  it  was  just  like  her  and 
because  I  know  now  better  than  ever  before 
how  much  she  really  loves  me,  those  things 
make  it  all  the  harder  to  tell  you  what  I  came 
here  to  tell  you — make  it  all  the  harder  for  me 
to  decide  what  I  should  do  and  to  ask  your 
advice  before  I  do  decide." 

"Oh,  I  reckin  it  can't  be  so  serious  ez  all 
that,"  said  Judge  Priest  comfortingly.  "Be 
twixt  us  we  oughter  be  able  to  find  a  way  out 
of  the  difficulty,  whutever  it  is.  S'pose,  honey, 
you  start  in  at  the  beginnin'  and  give  me  all  the 

facts  in  the  matter  that's  worryin'  you." 

[243] 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

She  started  then  and,  though  her  voice  broke 
several  times,  she  kept  on  until  she  came  to 
the  end  of  her  tragic  little  recital.  To  Emmy 
Lou  it  was  very  tragic  indeed. 

"So  you  see,  Judge  Priest,  just  how  it  is," 
she  stated  at  the  conclusion.  "From  both 
sides  I  am  catching  the  brunt  of  the  whole 
thing.  Aunt  Sharley  won't  budge  an  inch 
from  the  attitude  she's  taken,  and  neither  will 
Harvey  budge  an  inch.  He  says  she  must  go; 
she  tells  me  every  day  she  won't  go.  This  has 
been  going  on  for  a  week  now  and  I'm  almost 
distracted.  At  what  should  be  the  happiest 
time  in  a  girl's  life  I'm  being  made  terribly 
unhappy.  Why,  it  breaks  my  heart  every 
tune  I  look  at  her.  I  know  how  much  we  owe 
her — I  know  I  can  never  hope  to  repay  her  for 
all  she  has  done  for  me  and  my  sister. 

"But  oh,  Judge,  I  do  want  to  be  the  right 
kind  of  wife  to  Harvey.  All  my  life  long  I 
mean  to  obey  him  and  to  look  up  to  him;  I 
don't  want  to  begin  now  by  disobeying  him — 
by  going  counter  to  his  wishes.  And  I  can 
understand  his  position  too.  To  him  she's 
just  an  unreasonable,  meddlesome,  officious, 
contrary  old  negro  woman  who  would  insist 
on  running  the  household  of  which  he  should 
be  the  head.  She  would  too. 

"It  isn't  that  he  feels  unkindly  toward  her — 
he's  too  good  and  too  generous  for  that.  Why, 
it  was  Harvey  who  suggested  that  wages  should 
go  on  just  the  same  after  she  leaves  us — he  has 


QUALITY     FOLKS 


even  offered  to  double  them  if  it  will  make  her 
any  better  satisfied  with  the  move.  I'm  sure, 
though,  it  can't  be  the  question  of  money  that 
figures  with  her.  She  never  tells  anyone  about 
her  own  private  affairs,  but  after  all  these  years 
she  must  have  a  nice  little  sum  saved  up.  I 
can't  remember  when  she  spent  anything  on 
herself — she  was  always  so  thrifty  about  money. 
At  least  she  was  careful  about  our  expenditures, 
and  of  course  she  must  have  been  about  her 
own.  So  it  can't  be  that.  Harvey  puts  it 
down  to  plain  stubbornness.  He  says  after 
the  first  wrench  of  the  separation  is  over  she 
ought  to  be  happier,  when  she's  taking  things 
easy  in  her  own  little  house,  than  she  is  now, 
trying  to  do  all  the  work  in  our  house.  He 
says  he  wants  several  servants  in  our  home — a 
butler,  and  a  maid  to  wait  on  me  and  Mildred, 
and  a  housemaid  and  a  cook.  He  says  we 
can't  have  them  if  we  keep  Aunt  Sharley.  And 
we  can't,  either — she'd  drive  them  off  the  place. 
No  darky  could  get  along  with  her  a  week. 
Oh,  I  just  don't  know  what  to  do ! " 

"And  whut  does  Aunt  Sharley  say?"  asked 
the  Judge. 

"I  told  you.  Sometimes  she  says  she  won't 
go  and  sometimes  she  says  she  can't  go.  But 
she  won't  tell  why  she  can't — just  keeps  on 
declaring  up  and  down  that  she  can't.  She 
makes  a  different  excuse  or  she  gives  a  different 
reason  every  morning;  she  seems  to  spend  her 
nights  thinking  them  up.  Sometimes  I  think 
.  [245]  ~ 


FROM      PLACE     TO      PLACE 

she  is  keeping  something  back  from  me — that 
she  isn't  telling  me  the  real  cause  for  her  refusal 
to  accept  the  situation  and  make  the  best  of  it. 
You  know  how  secretive  our  coloured  people  can 
be  sometimes." 

"All  the  time,  you  mean,"  amended  the 
old  man.  "Northerners  never  seem  to  be  able 
to  git  it  through  their  heads  that  a  darky  kin  be 
loud-mouthed  and  close-mouthed  at  the  same 
time.  Now  you  take  that  black  boy  Jeff  of 
mine.  Jeff  knows  more  about  me — my  habits, 
my  likes  and  my  dislikes,  my  private  business 
and  my  private  thoughts  and  all — than  I  know 
myself.  And  I  know  jest  egsactly  ez  much 
about  his  real  self — whut  he  thinks  and  whut 
he  does  behind  my  back — ez  he  wants  me  to 
know,  no  more  and  no  less.  I  judge  it's  much 
the  same  way  with  your  Aunt  Sharley,  and  with 
all  the  rest  of  their  race  too.  We  understand 
how  to  live  with  'em,  but  that  ain't  sayin'  we 
understand  how  they  live." 

He  looked  steadfastly  at  his  late  ward. 

"Honey,  when  you  come  to  cast  up  the 
account  you  do  owe  a  lot  to  that  old  nigger 
woman,  don't  you? — you  and  your  sister  both. 
Mebbe  you  owe  even  more  than  you  think  you 
do.  There  ain't  many  left  like  her  in  this  new 
generation  of  darkies  that's  growed  up — she 
belongs  to  a  species  that's  mighty  nigh  extinct, 
ez  you  might  say.  Us  Southern  people  are 
powerfully  given,  some  of  us,  to  tellin'  whut 
we've  done  fur  the  black  race — and  we  have 
[  246  ] 


QUALITY 


FOLKS 


done  a  lot,  I'll  admit — but  sometimes  I  think 
we're  prone  to  furgit  some  of  the  things  they've 
done  fur  us.  Hold  on,  honey,"  he  added 
hastily,  seeing  that  she  was  about  to  speak  in 
her  own  defence.  "I  ain't  takin'  issue  with 
you  aginst  you  nor  yit  aginst  the  young  man 
you're  fixin'  to  marry.  After  all,  you've  got 
your  own  lives  to  live.  I  was  jest  sort  of 
studyin'  out  loud — not  offerin'  an  argument 
in  opposition." 

Still  looking  straight  at  her  he  asked  a  ques 
tion: 

"Tell  me  one  thing,  Emmy  Lou,  jest  to 
satisfy  my  curiosity  and  before  we  go  any 
further  with  this  here  bothersome  affair  that's 
makin'  you  unhappy.  It  seems  like  to  me  I 
heared  somewheres  that  you  first  met  this 
young  man  of  yours  whilst  you  and  little 
Mildred  were  off  at  Knollwood  Seminary 
finishin'  your  educations.  Is  that  so  or  ain't 
it?" 

"Yes,  sir,  that's  true,"  she  answered.  "You 
see,  when  we  first  went  to  Knollwood,  Harvey 
had  just  been  sent  South  to  take  a  place  in  the 
office  of  the  trolley  road  at  Knollwood. 

"His  people  were  interested  in  the  line;  he 
was  assistant  to  the  general  manager  then.  I 
met  him  there.  And  he — he  was  interested  in 
me,  I  suppose,  and  afterward,  when  he  had 
worked  his  way  up  and  had  been  promoted  to 
the  super  in  tendency,  his  company  bought  our 
line  in,  too,  and  he  induced  them  to  transfer 

[247] 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

him  here — I  mean  to  say  he  was  transferred 
here.  So  that's  how  it  all  happened." 

"I  see,"  he  said  musingly.  "You  met  him 
down  there  and  he  got  interested — 'interested' 
was  the  word  you  used,  wasn't  it,  honey? — and 
then  after  a  spell  when  you  had  left  there  he 
followed  you  here — or  rather  it  jest  so  hap 
pened  by  a  coincidence  that  he  was  sent  here. 
Well,  I  don't  know  ez  I  blame  him — for  being 
interested,  I  mean.  It  strikes  me  that  in 
addition  to  bein'  an  enterprisin'  young  man 
he's  also  got  excellent  taste  and  fine  discrimina 
tion.  He  ought  to  go  quite  a  ways  in  the 
world — whut  with  coincidences  favourin'  him 
and  everything." 

The  whimsical  note  died  out  of  his  voice. 
His  tone  became  serious. 

"Child,"  he  said  gently,  "whut  would  you 
say — and  whut's  even  more  important,  whut 
would  you  do — ef  I  was  to  tell  you  that  ef  it 
hadn't  a-been  fur  old  Aunt  Sharley  this  great 
thing  that's  come  into  your  life  probably  never 
would  have  come  into  it?  What  ef  I  was  to  tell 
you  that  if  it  hadn't  a-been  fur  her  you  never 
would  have  knowed  Mr.  Harvey  Winslow  in  the 
first  place — and  natchelly  wouldn't  be  engaged 
to  marry  him  now?" 

"Why,  Judge  Priest,  how  could  that  be?" 
Her  widened  eyes  betokened  a  blank  incredulity. 

"Emmy  Lou,"  he  answered  slowly,  "in  tellin' 
you  whut  I'm  about  to  tell  you  I'm  breakin'  a 
solemn  pledge,  and  that's  a  thing  I  ain't  much 


QUALITY      FOLKS 

given  to  doin'.  But  this  time  I  figger  the 
circumstances  justify  me.  Now  listen:  You 
remember,  don't  you,  that  in  the  first  year  or 
two  following  after  the  time  your  mother  left 
us,  the  estate  was  sort  of  snarled  up?  Well,  it 
was  worse  snarled  up  than  you  two  children 
had  any  idea  of.  Two  or  three  of  the  heaviest 
investments  your  father  made  in  the  later 
years  of  his  life  weren't  turnin'  out  very  well. 
The  taxes  on  'em  amounted  to  mighty  nigh  ez 
much  ez  whut  the  income  frum  'em  did.  We 
didn't  aim  to  pester  you  two  girls  with  all  the 
details,  so  we  sort  of  kept  'em  to  ourselves  and 
done  the  best  we  could.  You  lived  simple  and 
there  was  enough  to  take  care  of  you  and  to 
keep  up  your  home,  and  we  knowed  we  could 
depend  on  Aunt  Sharley  to  manage  careful. 
Really,  she  knowed  more  about  the  true  con 
dition  of  things  than  you  did.  Still,  even  so, 
you  no  doubt  got  an  inklin'  sometimes  of  how 
things  stood  with  regards  to  your  finances." 
She  nodded,  saying  nothing,  and  he  went  on: 
"Well,  jest  about  that  time,  one  day  in  the 
early  part  of  the  summer  I  had  a  visit  frum 
Aunt  Sharley.  She  come  to  me  in  my  office 
down  at  the  courthouse,  and  I  sent  Jeff  to 
fetch  Lew  Lake,  and  we  both  set  down  there 
together  with  that  old  nigger  woman,  and  she 
told  us  whut  she  had  to  say.  She  told  us  that  you 
children  had  growed  up  with  the  idea  that  you'd 
go  off  to  boardin'  school  somewheres  after  you 

were  done  with  our  local  schools,  and  that  you 
__ 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

were  beginnin'  to  talk  about  goin'  and  that  it 
was  high  time  fur  you  to  be  gittin'  ready  to  go, 
and,  in  brief,  she  wanted  to  know  whut  about 
it?  We  told  her  jest  how  things  stood — that 
under  the  terms  of  your  father's  will  practically 
everything  you  owned  was  entailed — held  in 
trust  by  us — until  both  of  the  heirs  had  come 
of  age.  We  told  her  that,  with  your  consent  or 
without  it,  we  didn't  have  the  power  to  sell 
off  any  part  of  the  estate,  and  so,  that  bein' 
the  case,  the  necessary  money  to  send  you  off 
to  school  jest  natchelly  couldn't  be  provided 
noways,  and  that,  since  there  was  jest  barely 
enough  money  comin'  in  to  run  the  home  and, 
by  stintin',  to  care  fur  you  and  Mildred,  any 
outside  and  special  expense  comin'  on  top  of 
the  regular  expenses  couldn't  possibly  be  con 
sidered — or,  in  other  words,  that  you  two 
couldn't  hope  to  go  to  boardin'  school. 

"I  reckin  you  kin  guess  fur  yourself  whut 
that  old  woman  done  then.  She  flared  up  and 
showed  all  her  teeth.  She  said  that  the  quality 
always  sent  their  daughters  off  to  boardin' 
school  to  give  'em  the  final  polish  that  made 
fine  ladies  of  'em.  She  said  her  Ole  Miss — 
meanin'  your  grandmother — had  gone  to  Knoll- 
wood  and  that  your  mother  had  gone  there, 
and  that  you  two  girls  were  goin'  there,  too, 
whether  or  no.  We  tried  to  explain  to  her  that 
some  of  the  finest  young  ladies  in  the  land  and 
some  of  the  best-born  ones  never  had  the  advan- 
tages  of  a  college  education,  but  she  said  she 


gUALITY      FOLKS 


didn't  keer  whut  people  somewheres  else  might 
do — that  the  daughters  of  her  kind  of  quality 
folks  went  to  college  and  that  you  two  were 
goin',  so  that  all  through  your  lives  you  could 
hold  up  your  heads  with  the  finest  in  the  land. 
You  never  seen  anybody  so  set  and  determined 
about  a  thing  ez  that  old  woman  was.  We 
tried  explainin'  to  her  and  we  tried  arguin' 
with  her,  and  Lew  Lake  tried  losin'  his  temper 
with  her,  him  bein'  somewhat  hot-headed,  but 
nothin'  we  could  say  seemed  to  have  any  effect 
on  her  at  all.  She  jest  set  there  with  her  old 
skinny  arms  folded  on  her  breast  like  a  major- 
general,  and  that  old  under  lip  of  hers  stuck  out 
and  her  neck  bowed,  sayin'  over  and  over  agin 
that  you  girls  were  goin'  to  that  boardin'  school 
same  ez  the  Dabneys  and  the  Helms  had  always 
done.  So  finally  we  throwed  up  our  hands  and 
told  her  we  were  at  the  end  of  our  rope  and  she'd 
kindly  have  to  show  us  the  way  to  bring  it  all 
about. 

"And  then  she  up  and  showed  us.  You 
remember  the  night  me  and  Lew  Lake  come 
up  to  your  house  to  talk  over  the  matter  of  your 
college  education  and  I  told  you  to  call  Aunt 
Sharley  into  the  conference — you  remember 
that,  don't  you?  And  you  remember  she  come 
out  strong  in  favour  of  Knollwood  and  that 
after  a  while  we  seemed  to  give  in?  Well,  child, 
I've  got  a  little  confession  to  make  to  you  now 
along  with  a  bigger  one  later  on :  That  was  all  a 
little  piece  of  by-play  that  had  been  planned  out 
""••---  [251]  " 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

in  advance.  We  knowed  beforehand  that 
Aunt  Sharley  was  goin'  to  favour  Knoll  wood 
and  that  we  were  goin'  to  fall  into  line  with  her 
notions  about  it  at  the  end.  She'd  already 
licked  us  to  a  standstill  there  in  my  office,  and 
we  were  jest  try  in'  to  save  our  faces. 

"So  you  went  to  college  and  you  both  stayed 
there  two  full  years.  And  I  mout  ez  well  tell 
you  right  now  that  the  principal  reason  why 
you  had  so  many  purty  fixin's  to  wear  whilst 
you  was  away  and  why  you  had  ez  much  pin 
money  to  spend  ez  any  other  two  girls  there 
was  because  that  old  woman  lived  on  less'n  it 
would  take,  seemin'ly,  to  keep  a  bird  alive, 
savin'  every  cent  she  could  scrape  up,  and 
bringin'  it  to  me  to  be  sent  on  to  you  ez  part  of 
your  allowance." 

"But  I  don't  understand  yet,"  cried  out 
Emmy  Lou.  "Why,  Judge,  Aunt  Sharley 
just  can  write  her  own  name.  We  had  to 
print  out  the  words  in  the  letters  we  wrote  her 
so  that  she  could  read  them.  I  don't  under 
stand  how  the  poor  good  old  ignorant  soul 
could  figure  out  where  the  money  which  paid 
for  our  schooling  could  be  found  when  both  you 
and  Doctor  Lake " 

"I'm  comin'  to  that  part  now,"  he  told  her. 
"Honey,  you  were  right  when  you  guessed  that 
Aunt  Sharley  has  been  holdin'  somethin'  back 
frum  you  durin'  this  past  week;  but  she's  been 
tellin'  you  the  truth  too — in  a  way  of  speakin'. 
She  ain't  got  any  money  saved  up — or  at  least 
"  [252]  " 


QUALITY     FOLKS 


ef  she's  got  any  at  all  it  ain't  ez  much  ez  you 
imagine.  Whut  she's  got  laid  by  kin  only 
represent  the  savin's  of  four  or  five  years,  not  of 
a  whole  lifetime.  And  when  she  said  to  you 
that  she  couldn't  leave  you  to  go  to  live  in  that 
little  house  that  your  father  left  her  in  his  will 
she  wasn't  speakin'  a  lie.  She  can't  go  there 
to  live  because  it  ain't  hers — she  don't  own  it 
any  more.  Over  five  years  ago  she  sold  it 
outright,  and  she  took  the  price  she  got  fur  it 
and  to  that  price  she  added  whut  she'd  saved 
up  ez  the  fruits  of  a  life-time  of  toil  spent  in 
your  service  and  the  service  of  your  people 
before  you,  and  that  was  the  money — her 
money,  every  cent  of  it — which  paid  fur  your 
two  years  at  college.  Now  you  know." 

For  a  long  half  minute  she  stared  at  him,  her 
face  whitening  and  the  great  tears  beginning 
to  run  down  her  cheeks.  They  ran  faster  and 
faster.  She  gave  a  great  sob  and  then  she 
threw  her  arms  about  the  old  Judge's  neck  and 
buried  her  face  on  his  shoulder. 

"Oh,  I  never  dreamed  it!  I  never  dreamed 
it !  I  never  had  a  suspicion !  And  I've  been  so 
cruel  to  her,  so  heartless!  Oh,  Judge  Priest, 
why  did  you  and  Doctor  Lake  ever  let  her  do  it? 
Why  did  you  let  her  make  that  sacrifice?" 

He  patted  her  shoulder  gently. 

"Well,  honey,  we  did  try  at  first  to  discourage 

her  from  the  notion,  but  we  mighty  soon  seen  it 

wasn't  any  use  to  try,  and  a  little  later  on, 

comin'  to  think  it  over,  we  decided  mebbe  we 

[253] 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

didn't  want  to  try  any  more.  There're  some 
impulses  in  this  world  too  noble  to  be  interfered 
with  or  hampered  or  thwarted,  and  some  sacri 
fices  so  fine  that  none  of  us  should  try  to  spoil 
'em  by  settin'  up  ourselves  and  our  own  wills 
in  the  road.  That's  how  I  felt.  That's  how 
Lew  Lake  felt.  That's  how  we  both  felt.  And 
anyhow  she  kept  p'intin'  out  that  she  wouldn' 
never  need  that  there  little  house,  because  so 
long  ez  she  lived  she'd  have  a  home  with  you 
two  girls.  That's  whut  she  said,  anyway." 

"But  why  weren't  we  allowed  to  know  before 
now?  Why  didn't  we  know — Mildred  and  I — 
ten  days  ago,  so  that  she  might  have  been 
spared  the  cruel  thing  I've  done?  Why  didn't 
she  come  out  and  tell  us  when  we  went  to  her 
and  I  told  her  she  must  get  off  the  place?  Why 
didn't  you  tell  me,  Judge,  before  now — why 
didn't  you  give  me  a  hint  before  now?" 

"Honey,  I  couldn't.  I  was  under  a  solemn 
promise  not  to  tell — a  promise  that  I've  jest 
now  broken.  On  the  whole  I  think  I'm  glad  I 
did  break  it.  .  .  .  Lemme  see  ef  I  kin  remem 
ber  in  her  own  words  whut  she  said  to  us? 
'GenTmens,'  she  says,  'dem  chillens  is  of  de 
quality  an'  entitled  to  hole  up  they  haids  wid 
de  fines'  in  de  land.  I  don't  want  never  to 
have  dem  demeaned  by  lettin'  dem  know  or  by 
lettin'  ary  other  pusson  know  dat  an  old  black 
nigger  woman  furnished  de  money  to  help  mek 
fine  young  ladies  of  'em.  So  long  ez  I  live,' 

she  says,  *dey  ain't  never  to  beah  it  frum  my 

__ 


QUALITY     FOLKS 


lips  an'  you  must  both  gimme  yore  word  dat 
dey  don't  never  heah  it  frum  yourn.  Wen  I 
dies,  an'  not  befo'  den,  dey  may  know  de  truth. 
De  day  dey  lays  me  in  de  coffin  you  kin  tell  'em 
both  de  secret — but  not  befo'!'  she  says. 

"So  you  see,  child,  we  were  under  a  pledge, 
and  till  to-day  I've  kept  that  pledge.  Nobody 
knows  about  the  sale  of  that  little  piece  of 
property  except  Aunt  Sharley  and  Lew  Lake 
and  me  and  the  man  who  bought  it  and  the  man 
who  recorded  the  deed  that  I  drew  up.  Even 
the  man  who  bought  it  never  learned  the  real 
name  of  the  previous  owner,  and  the  matter  of 
the  recordin'  was  never  made  public.  Whut's 
the  good  of  my  bein'  the  circuit  judge  of  this 
district  without  I've  got  influence  enough  with 
the  county  clerk  to  see  that  a  small  real-estate 
transaction  kin  be  kept  frum  pryin'  eyes?  So 
you  see  only  five  people  knowed  anything  a-tall 
about  that  sale,  and  only  three  of  them  knowed 
the  true  facts,  and  now  I've  told  you,  and  so 
that  makes  four  that  are  sharin'  the  secret. 
.  .  .  Don't  carry  on  so,  honey.  'Tain't  ez 
ef  you'd  done  somethin'  that  couldn't  be 
mended.  You've  got  all  your  life  to  make  it 
up  to  her.  And  besides,  you  were  in  ignorance 
until  jest  now.  .  .  .  Now,  Emmy  Lou,  I 
ain't  goin'  to  advise  you;  but  I  certainly  would 
like  to  hear  frum  your  own  lips  whut  you  do 
aim  to  do?" 

She  raised  her  head  and  through  the  brim 
ming  tears  her  eyes  shone  like  twin  stars. 
" [255] 


FROM      PLACE     TO      PLACE 

"What  am  I  going  to  do?"  she  echoed. 
"Judge,  you  just  said  nobody  knew  except  four 
of  us.  Well,  everybody  is  going  to  know — 
everybody  in  this  town  is  going  to  know,  be 
cause  I'm  going  to  tell  them.  I'll  be  a  prouder 
and  a  happier  girl  when  they  do  know,  all  of 
them,  than  I've  ever  been  in  my  whole  life. 
And  I  warn  you  that  neither  you  nor  Aunt 
Sharley  nor  any  other  person  alive  can  keep  me 
from  telling  them.  I'm  going  to  glory  in  telling 
the  world  the  story  of  it." 

"Lord  bless  your  spunky  little  soul,  honey, 
I  ain't  goin'  to  try  to  hender  you  frum  tellin'," 
said  Judge  Priest.  "Anyhow,  I  expect  to  be 
kept  busy  durin'  the  next  few  days  keepin'  out  of 
that  old  nigger  woman's  way.  ...  So  that's 
the  very  first  thing  you  aim  to  do?" 

"No,  it  isn't,  either,"  she  exclaimed,  catch 
ing  the  drift  of  his  meaning.  "That  is  going 
to  be  the  second  thing  I  do.  But  the  first 
thing  I  am  going  to  do  is  to  go  straight  back 
home  as  fast  as  I  can  walk  and  get  down  on  my 
knees  before  Aunt  Sharley  and  beg  her  forgive 
ness  for  being  so  unjust  and  so  unkind." 

"Oh,  I  reckin  that  won't  hardly  be  neces 
sary,"  said  Judge  Priest.  "I  kind  of  figger 
that  ef  you'll  jest  have  a  little  cryin'  bee  with 
her  that'll  answer  every  purpose.  Jest  put 
your  young  arms  round  her  old  neck  and  cry  a 
spell  with  her.  It's  been  my  observation  that, 
black  or  white,  cryin'  together  seems  to  bring  a 
heap  of  comfort  to  the  members  of  your  sex." 
[256] 


QUALITY      FOLKS 

"I  think  perhaps  I  shall  try  that,"  she  agreed, 
smiling  in  spite  of  herself;  and  her  smile  was  like 
sunshine  in  the  midst  of  a  shower.  "I'll  begin 
by  kissing  her  right  smack  on  the  mouth — like 
this."  And  she  kissed  the  Judge  squarely  on 
his. 

"Judge  Priest,"  she  stated,  "this  town  is  due 
for  more  than  one  surprise.  Do  you  know 
who's  going  to  be  the  matron  of  honour  at  my 
wedding  three  weeks  from  now?  I'll  give  you 
just  one  guess." 

He  glanced  up  at  her  quizzically. 

"Whut  do  you  s'pose  the  young  man  is  goin' 
to  have  to  say  about  that?"  he  asked. 

"If  he  doesn't  like  it  he  can  find  some  other 
girl  to  marry  him,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  I  kind  of  imagine  he'll  listen  to  reason — 
especially  comin'  frum  you,"  said  Judge  Priest. 
"He  will  ef  he's  the  kind  of  young  man  that's 
worthy  to  marry  Tom  Dabney's  daughter." 

It  is  possible  that  some  of  the  bridegroom's 
kinspeople,  coming  down  from  the  North  for 
the  wedding,  were  shocked  to  find  a  wizen, 
coal-black  woman,  who  was  lame  of  one  leg, 
not  only  taking  part  in  the  ceremony,  filling  a 
place  next  in  importance  to  that  of  the  con 
tracting  pair  and  the  maid  of  honour,  but 
apparently  in  active  and  undisputed  charge  of 
the  principal  details.  However,  being  well- 
bred  persons,  they  did  not  betray  their  astonish- 
ment  by  word,  look  or  deed.  Perhaps  they 

[257] 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

figured  it  as  one  of  the  customs  of  the  country 
that  an  old  shrill-voiced  negress,  smelling  of 
snuff  and  black  silk,  should  play  so  prominent 
a  r61e  in  the  event  itself  and  in  the  reception 
that  followed. 

However,  all  that  is  ancient  history  now. 
What  I  have  to  add  is  a  commingling  of  past 
local  history  and  present  local  history.  As  I 
said  at  the  outset,  there  were  formerly  any 
number  of  black  children  in  our  town  who  bore 
the  names  of  white  friends  and  white  patrons, 
but  to  my  knowledge  there  was  never  but  one 
white  child  named  for  a  black  person.  The 
child  thus  distinguished  was  a  girl  child,  the 
first-born  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Harvey  Winslow. 
Her  full  name  was  Charlotte  Helm  Winslow, 
but  nearly  everybody  called  her  Little  Sharley. 
She  is  still  called  so,  I  believe,  though  growing 
now  into  quite  a  sizable  young  person. 


[258] 


CHAPTER  VI 
JOHN   J.    COINCIDENCE 


SOMEBODY  said  once  that  facts  are 
stubborn  things,  which  is  a  lie.  Facts 
are  almost  the  most  flexible  things 
known  to  man.  The  historian  appre 
ciates  the  truth  of  this  just  as  the  fictionist 
recognises  and  is  governed  by  the  opposite  of  it, 
each  according  to  his  lights.  In  recording  the 
actual,  the  authentic,  the  definite,  your  chron 
icler  may  set  down  in  all  soberness  things  which 
are  utterly  inconceivable;  may  set  them  down 
because  they  have  happened.  But  he  who 
deals  with  the  fanciful  must  be  infinitely  more 
conventional  in  his  treatment  of  the  proba 
bilities  and  the  possibilities,  else  the  critics  will 
say  he  has  let  his  imagination  run  away  with 
him.  They'll  tell  him  to  put  ice  on  his  brow 
and  advise  sending  his  creative  faculty  to  the 
restcure. 

Jules  Verne  was  a  teller  of  most  mad  tales 
which  he  conjured  up  out  of  his  head.  The 
Brothers  Wright  and  Edison  and  Holland,  the 
submarine  man,  worked  out  their  notions  with 
..  [259]  ~ ~ 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

monkey  wrenches  and  screw  drivers  and  things, 
thereby  accomplishing  verities  far  surpassing 
the  limit  where  common  sense  threw  up  a 
barrier  across  the  pathway  of  Verne's  genius. 
H.  G.  Wells  never  dreamed  a  dream  of  a  world 
war  to  equal  the  one  which  William  Hohen- 
zollern  loosed  by  ordering  a  flunky  in  uniform 
to  transmit  certain  dispatches  back  yonder  in 
the  last  week  of  July  and  the  first  week  of 
August,  1914. 

So  always  it  has  gone.  So  always,  beyond 
peradventure,  it  must  continue  to  go. 

If  in  his  first  act  the  playwright  has  his  prin 
cipal  characters  assembled  in  a  hotel  lobby 
in  Chicago  and  in  Act  II  has  them  all  bumping 
into  one  another — quite  by  chance — in  a  dugout 
in  Flanders,  the  reviewers  sternly  will  chide 
him  for  violating  Rule  1  of  the  book  of  dramatic 
plausibilities,  and  quite  right  they  will  be  too. 
But  when  the  identical  event  comes  to  pass  in 
real  life — as  before  now  it  has — we  merely  say 
that,  after  all,  it's  a  small  world  now,  isn't  it? 
And  so  saying,  pass  along  to  the  next  prepos 
terous  occurrence  that  has  just  occurred.  In 
fiction  coincidence  has  its  metes  and  bounds 
beyond  which  it  dare  not  step.  In  human 
affairs  it  has  none. 

Speaking  of  coincidences,  that  brings  me 
round  to  the  matter  of  a  certain  sergeant  and  a 
certain  private  in  our  American  Expeditionary 
Force  which  is  a  case  that  is  a  case  in  point  of 
what  I  have  just  been  saying  upon  this  subject. 
[260] 


JOHN      J.      COINCIDENCE 

If  Old  Man  Coincidence  had  not  butted  into 
the  picture  when  he  did  and  where  he  did  and 
so  frequently  as  he  did,  there  would  be — for 
me — no  tale  to  tell  touching  on  these  two,  the 
sergeant  and  the  private.  But  he  did.  And 
I  shall. 

To  begin  at  the  remote  beginning,  there  once 
upon  a  time  was  a  fight  in  front  of  the  public 
school  in  Henry  Street  over  on  the  East  Side, 
in  which  encounter  one  Pasquale  Gallino  licked 
the  Semitic  stuffings  out  of  a  fellow-pupil  of 
his — by  name  Hyman  Ginsburg.  To  be  ex 
plicit  about  it,  he  made  the  Ginsburg  boy's 
somewhat  prominent  nose  to  bleed  extensively 
and  swelled  up  Hy man's  ear  until  for  days 
thereafter  Hyman's  head,  viewed  fore  or  aft, 
had  rather  a  lop-sided  appearance,  what  with 
one  ear  being  so  much  thicker  than  its  mate. 
The  object  of  this  mishandlement  was  as  good  as 
whipped  before  he  started  by  reason  of  the 
longer  reach  and  quicker  fist  play  of  his  squat 
and  swarthy  opponent.  Nevertheless,  facing 
inevitable  and  painful  defeat,  he  acquitted  him 
self  with  proper  credit  and  courage. 

Bearing  his  honourable  wounds,  Master 
Ginsburg  went  home  from  battle  to  a  tenement 
in  Allen  Street,  there  to  be  licked  again  for 
having  been  licked  before;  or,  speaking  with 
exactitude,  for  having  been  in  a  fight,  his  father 
being  one  who  held  by  the  theory  that  diplo 
macy  ever  should  find  the  way  out  to  peace 
when  blows  threatened  to  follow  on  disputation. 
[261] 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

With  view,  therefore,  to  proving  his  profound 
distaste  for  physical  violence  in  any  form  he 
employed  it  freely  upon  the  body  of  his  son, 
using  to  that  end  a  strap.  Scarred  in  new  places, 
the  victim  of  two  beatings  in  one  day  went 
weeping  and  supperless  to  bed. 

Now  this  fight  in  Henry  Street  took  place 
some  sixteen  years  ago,  and  in  sixteen  years  a 
great  deal  of  water  runs  under  the  bridges  pro 
vided  for  that  purpose  and  for  other  purposes. 
Two  separate  currents  of  the  water  that  flowed 
caught  up  Hyman  Ginsburg  and  Pasquale 
Gallino  and  carried  them  along  differing  chan 
nels  toward  differing  destinies.  While  Hyman 
was  in  the  grammar  grades,  a  brag  pupil, 
Pasquale  was  in  the  Protectory,  a  branded 
incorrigible.  While  Hyman  was  attending  high 
school,  Pasquale  was  attending  reform  school. 
When  Hyman,  a  man  grown,  was  taking  his 
examinations  with  the  idea  of  getting  on  the 
police  force,  Pasquale  was  constructing  an  alibi 
with  the  idea  of  staying  out  of  Sing  Sing.  One 
achieved  his  present  ambition — that  was  Hy 
man. 

The  next  period  of  their  respective  develop 
ments  found  this  pair  in  a  fair  way  each  to 
achieve  a  definite  niche  in  his  chosen  profession. 
Patrolman  Hyman  Ginsburg,  after  walking 
post  for  some  months,  had  been  taken  out  of 
uniform  and  put  into  civilian  garb  as  a  plain- 
clothes  man  on  the  Headquarters  staff.  Here 
he  was  making  good.  Having  intelligence  and 
[262]  ~" """" 


JOHN      J.      COINCIDENCE 

energy  and  the  racial  persistence  which  is  as 
much  a  part  of  his  breed  as  their  hands  and 
their  feet  are,  he  was  looked  upon  in  the  de 
partment  as  a  detective  with  a  future  ahead  of 
him. 

As  for  him  who  had  once  been  Pasquale 
Gallino,  he  now  occupied  a  position  of  promi 
nence  amid  congenial  surroundings  while  fol 
lowing  after  equally  congenial  pursuits.  There 
was  a  gang.  Despite  the  fact  that  it  was  such 
a  new  gang,  this  gang  before  the  eyes  of  law  and 
order  stood  high  upon  a  pinnacle  of  evil  emi 
nence,  overtopping  such  old-established  gangs 
as  the  Gas  House  and  the  Gophers,  the  Skinned 
Rabbits  and  the  Pearl  Button  Kid's.  Taking 
title  from  the  current  name  of  its  chieftain,  it 
was  popularly  known  as  the  Stretchy  Gorman 
gang.  Its  headquarters  was  a  boozing  den  of 
exceeding  ill  repute  on  the  lower  West  Side. 
Its  chief  specialties  were  loft  robberies  and  dock 
robberies.  Its  favourite  side  lines  were  election 
frauds  and  so-called  strike-breaking  jobs.  The 
main  amusement  of  its  members  was  hoodlum- 
ism  in  its  broader  and  more  general  phases. 
Its  shield  and  its  buckler  was  political  influence 
of  a  sort;  its  keenest  sword  was  its  audacious 
young  captain.  You  might  call  it  a  general- 
purposes  gang.  Contemporary  gangsters  spoke 
of  it  with  respect  and  admiration.  For  a  thing 
so  young  it  gave  great  promise. 

A  day  came,  though,  when  the  protection 
under  which  the  Stretchy  Gormans  had 
[263] 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

flourished  ceased  to  protect.  It  is  not  known, 
nor  yet  is  it  written,  what  the  reason  for  this 
was.  Perhaps  there  was  a  breaking  off  of  the 
friendly  relations  theretofore  existing  between 
one  of  the  down-town  district  leaders  and  one 
of  the  powers — name  deleted — higher  up.  Per 
haps  the  newspapers  had  scolded  too  shrilly, 
demanding  the  house-cleaning  of  a  neighbour 
hood  which  had  become  a  bad  smell  in  the 
sensitive  nostrils  of  honest  taxpayers  and  valued 
advertisers.  Certainly  burglaries  in  the  whole 
sale  silk  district  had  occurred  so  numerously  as 
to  constitute  a  public  scandal. 

Then,  besides,  there  was  the  incident  of  the 
night  watchman  of  a  North  River  freight  pier, 
a  worthy  enough  person  though  a  non voter  and 
therefore  of  small  account  from  the  viewpoint 
of  ward  politics,  who  stood  up  in  single-handed 
defence  of  his  employer's  premises  and  goods 
against  odds  of  at  least  four  to  one.  Swinging 
a  cold  chisel,  someone  chipped  a  bit  of  bone  out 
of  the  watchman's  skull  as  expeditiously  and 
almost  as  neatly  as  a  visiting  Englishman  chips 
the  poll  of  his  breakfast  egg;  so  that  forever 
after  the  victim  nursed  an  achesome  and  slightly 
addled  brain.  Then  there  were  other  things. 

Be  the  cause  what  it  may,  it  certainly  is  the 
fact  that  on  a  pleasant  autumnal  afternoon 
Inspector  Krogan  summoned  to  his  presence 
two  members  of  the  Central  Office  staff  and 
told  them  to  go  get  Stretchy  Gorman.  Stretchy 
was  to  be  gone  after  and  got  on  the  blanket 
[264] 


JOHN      J.      COINCIDENCE 

charge — the  rubber  blanket  charge,  as  one 
might  say,  since  it  is  so  elastic  and  covers  such 
a  multitude  of  sins — of  being  a  suspicious 
character. 

Now  Stretchy  Gorman  had  no  character  to 
speak  of;  so  therein  the  accusation  appeared 
faulty.  But  equally  was  it  true  as  Holy  Gospel 
that  he  was  suspicious  of  nearly  everybody  on 
earth  and  that  nearly  everybody  on  earth  had 
reasons  to  be  suspicious  of  him.  So,  balancing 
one  word  against  the  other,  the  garment  might 
be  said  to  fit  him.  At  any  rate,  it  was  plain 
the  supreme  potentates  had  decreed  for  him 
that  he  was  to  wear  it. 

One  of  the  detectives  detailed  to  this  assign 
ment  was  Hyman  Ginsburg.  His  partner  on 
the  job  was  a  somewhat  older  man  named 
Casane.  These  two  frequently  worked  to 
gether.  Pulling  in  double  harness  they  made 
a  dependable  team.  Both  had  wit  and  shrewd 
ness.  By  sight,  Casane  knew  the  individual 
they  were  deputed  to  take;  Ginsburg,  to  his 
knowledge,  had  never  seen  him. 

Across  his  roll-top  desk  the  inspector,  speak 
ing  as  follows,  according  to  the  mode  of  the 
fellowcraft,  gave  them  their  instructions: 

"You'll  likely  be  findin'  this  here  party  at  the 
Stuffed  Owl.  That's  his  regular  hang-out. 
My  information  is  that  he's  usually  there 
regular  this  time  of  the  day.  I've  just  had 
word  that  he  went  in  there  fifteen  minutes  ago; 
it's  likely  he'll  be  stayin'  a  while. 

__  


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

"Now,  if  he's  in  there  don't  you  two  go  and 
send  for  him  to  come  outside  to  you;  nothin' 
like  that.  See?  You  go  right  in  after  him  and 
nail  him  right  in  front  of  his  own  pals.  Under 
stand?  I  want  him  and  his  bunch  and  the 
reporters  all  to  know  that  this  here  alleged  drag 
of  his  that  the  newspapers've  been  beefin'  so 
loud  about  is  all  bogus.  And  then  you  fetch 
him  here  to  me  and  I'll  do  the  rest.  Don't 
make  no  gun  play  nor  nothin'  of  that  nature 
without  you  have  to,  but  at  the  same  time 
and  nevertheless  don't  take  no  foolish  chances. 
This  party  may  act  up  rough  and  then  again 
he  may  not.  Get  me?  My  guess  is  he  won't. 
Still  and  notwithstandin',  don't  leave  no 
openin's.  Now  get  goin'." 

Sure  enough  it  was  at  the  sign  of  the  Stuffed 
Owl,  down  in  a  basement  bat  cave  of  a  place  and 
in  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  that  they  found  their 
man.  To  Ginsburg's  curious  eyes  he  revealed 
himself  as  a  short,  swart  person  with  enormously 
broad  shoulders  and  with  a  chimpanzee's  arm 
reach.  Look  at  those  arms  of  his  and  one 
knew  why  he  was  called  Stretchy.  How  he 
had  acquired  his  last  name  of  Gorman  was  only 
to  be  guessed  at.  It  was  fair  to  assume,  though, 
he  had  got  it  by  processes  of  self -adoption — no 
unusual  thing  in  a  city  where  overnight  a 
Finkelstein  turns  into  a  Fogarty  and  he  who  at 
the  going  down  of  the  sun  was  Antonio  Bacci- 
galuppi  has  at  the  upcoming  of  the  same  become 
Joseph  Brown.  One  thing,  though,  was  sure 
[266] 


JOHN      J.      COINCIDENCE 

as  rain :  This  particular  Gorman  had  never  been 
a  Gorman  born. 

Not  the  blackest  of  the  "Black  Irish,"  not 
the  most  brunette  of  brunette  Welshmen  ever 
had  a  skin  of  that  peculiar  brownish  pallor,  like 
clear  water  in  a  cypress  swamp,  or  eyes  like  the 
slitted  pair  looking  out  obliquely  from  this 
man's  head. 

Taking  their  cue  of  action  from  their  su 
perior's  words,  Casane  and  Ginsburg,  having 
come  down  the  short  flight  of  steps  leading 
from  the  sidewalk,  went  directly  across  the 
barroom  to  where  their  man  sat  at  a  small  table 
with  two  others,  presumably  both  of  his  fol 
lowing,  for  his  companions. 

The  manner  of  the  intruders  was  casual 
enough;  casual  and  yet  marked  by  a  business 
like  air.  They  knew  that  at  this  moment  they 
were  not  especially  attractive  risks  for  an  acci 
dent  insurance  company.  The  very  sawdust 
on  the  floor  stank  of  villainy;  the  brass  bar  rail 
might  have  been  a  rigid  length  of  poison  snake; 
the  spittoons  were  small  sinks  of  corruption. 
Moreover,  they  had  been  commissioned  to  take 
a  monarch  off  his  throne  before  the  eyes  of  his 
courtiers,  and  history  records  that  this  ever  was 
a  proceeding  fraught  with  peril. 

Still  they  went  straight  toward  him.  Before 
they  spoke  a  word — almost  before  they  were 
well  inside  the  street  door — he  must  have 
recognised  them  as  Headquarters  men.  Being 
what  he  was,  he  instantly  would  have  appraised 
[267]  " 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

them  for  what  they  were  had  the  meeting 
taken  place  in  the  dead  vast  and  middle  of 
Sahara's  sandy  wastes.  Even  the  seasoned 
urbanite  who  is  law-abiding  and  who  has  no 
cause  to  fear  the  thief-taker  can  pick  out  a 
detective  halfway  up  the  block. 

Besides,  in  the  same  instant  that  they 
descended  from  the  street  level,  the  barkeeper 
with  his  tongue  had  made  a  small  clucking 
sound,  thrice  repeated,  and  with  all  four 
fingers  of  his  right  hand  had  gripped  the  left 
lapel  of  his  unbuttoned  waistcoat.  Thereat 
there  had  been  a  general  raising  of  heads  all 
over  the  place.  Since  the  days  of  Jonathan 
Wild  and  even  before  that — since  the  days  when 
the  Romany  Rye  came  out  of  the  East  into 
England — the  signal  of  the  collar  has  been  the 
sign  of  the  collar,  which  means  the  cop. 

The  man  they  sought  eyed  them  contempt 
uously  from  under  the  down-tilted  visor  of  his 
cap  as  they  approached  him.  His  arms  were 
folded  upon  the  table  top  and  for  the  moment 
he  kept  them  so. 

"Evening,"  said  Casane  civilly, pausing  along 
side  him.  "  Call  yourself  Gorman,  don't  you?  " 

"I've  been  known  to  answer  to  that  name," 
he  answered  back  in  the  curious  flat  tone  that 
is  affected  by  some  of  his  sort  and  is  natural 
with  the  rest  of  them.  "  Wot  of  it?  " 

"There's  somebody  wants  to  have  a  talk 
with  you  up  at  the  front  office — that's  all," 

said  Casane. 

[268]          "" 


JOHN     J.      COINCIDENCE 

"It's  a  pinch  then,  huh?"  The  gangster  put 
his  open  hands  against  the  edge  of  the  table 
as  though  for  a  rearward  spring. 

"I'm  tellin'  you  all  we  know  ourselves," 
countered  Casane.  His  voice  was  conciliatory 
— soothing  almost.  But  Ginsburg  had  edged 
round  past  Casane,  ready  at  the  next  warning 
move  to  take  the  gang  leader  on  the  flank  with 
a  quick  forward  rush,  and  inside  their  overcoats 
the  shapes  of  both  the  officers  had  tensed. 

"Call  it  a  pinch  if  you  want  to,"  went  on 
Casane.  "I'd  call  it  more  of  an  invitation 
just  to  take  a  little  walk  with  us  two  and  then 
have  a  chat  with  somebody  else.  Unless  you 
or  some  of  your  friends  here  feel  like  startin' 
something  there'll  be  no  rough  stuff — that's 
orders.  We're  askin'  you  to  go  along — first. 
How  about  it?" 

"Oh,  I'll  go— I'll  go!  There's  nobody  got 
anything  on  me.  And  nobody's  goin'  to  get 
anything  on  me  neither." 

He  stood  up  and  with  a  quick  movement 
jerked  back  the  skirts  of  his  coat,  holding  them 
aloft  so  that  his  hip  pockets  and  his  waistband 
showed. 

"Take  notice!"  he  cried,  invoking  as  wit 
nesses  all  present.  "Take  notice  that  I'm 
carryin'  no  gat !  So  don't  you  bulls  try  f ramin' 
me  under  the  Sullivan  Law  for  havin'  a  gat  on 
me.  There's  half  a  dozen  here  knows  I  ain't 
heeled  and  kin  swear  to  it — case  of  a  frame-up. 

Now  go  ahead  and  frisk  me!" 

[269] 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

"That'll  be  all  right — we  could  easy  take 
your  word  for  it,"  said  Casane,  still  maintaining 
his  placating  pose.  Nevertheless  he  signed  to 
Ginsburg  and  the  latter  moved  a  step  nearer 
their  man  and  his  practiced  fingers  ran  swiftly 
over  the  unresisting  form,  feeling  beneath  the 
arms,  down  the  flanks,  about  the  belt  line  and 
even  at  the  back  of  the  neck  for  a  suspicious 
hard  bulge  inside  the  garments,  finally  giving 
the  side  coat  pockets  a  perfunctory  slap. 

"Unless  you  make  it  necessary,  we  won't  be 
callin'  for  the  wagon,"  Casane  stated.  "Just 
the  three  of  us'll  take  a  little  stroll,  like  I'm 
telling  you — just  stroll  out  and  take  the  air 
up  to  Headquarters." 

He  slipped  into  position  on  one  side  of  the 
gangster,  Ginsburg  on  the  other.  Over  his 
shoulder  the  man  thus  placed  between  them 
looked  round  to  where  his  two  underlings  still 
sat  at  the  table,  both  silent  as  the  rest  of 
the  company  were,  but  both  plainly  prepared 
for  any  contingencies;  both  ready  to  follow 
their*  chief's  lead  in  whatsoever  course,  peace 
able  or  violent,  he  might  next  elect  to  follow. 

"Here  you,  Louie,"  he  bade  one  of  them, 
"jump  to  the  telephone  and  notify  a  certain 
party  to  have  me  mouthpiece  at  Headquarters 
by  the  time  I  kin  get  there  with  these  two  dicks. 
Tell  him  the  cops've  got  nothin'  on  me,  but  I 
wants  me  mouthpiece  there  just  the  same — 
case  of  a  tie." 

Until  now  the  preliminaries  had  been  carried 
~ [270] 


JOHN      J.      COINCIDENCE 

on  with  a  due  regard  for  the  unwritten  but 
rigid  code  of  underworld  etiquette.  From 
neither  side  had  there  issued  a  single  unethical 
word.  The  detectives  had  been  punctilious 
to  avoid  ruffling  the  sensibilities  of  any  and  all. 
All  the  same,  the  prisoner  chose  of  a  sudden  to 
turn  nasty.  It  was  at  once  manifest  that  he 
aimed  to  give  offence  without  giving  provoca 
tion  or  real  excuse  for  reprisals  on  the  part  of 
the  invaders.  He  spat  side  wise  across  Casane's 
front  and  as  he  took  the  first  step  forward  he 
brought  the  foot  down  upon  one  of  Ginsburg's 
feet,  grinding  his  heel  sharply  into  the  toes 
beneath.  Ginsburg  winced  at  the  pain  but  did 
not  speak;  he  had  not  spoken  at  all  up  until 
now,  leaving  it  to  Casane  as  the  elder  man  to 
conduct  the  preliminaries. 

"Why  don't  you  say  something,  you  Jew!" 
taunted  the  prisoner.  "Don't  you  even  know 
enough  to  excuse  yourself  when  you  stick  your 
fat  feet  in  people's  way?" 

"That'll  be  all  right,"  said  Ginsburg  crisply. 
It  was  his  business  to  avoid  the  issue  of  a  clash. 
"And  it'll  be  all  right  your  calling  me  a  Jew. 
I  am  a  Jew  and  I'm  proud  of  it.  And  I'm 
wearing  the  same  name  I  started  out  with  too." 

"Is  that  so?" 

Except  in  the  inspired  pages  of  fiction  city 
thugs  are  singularly  barren  of  power  to  deliver 
really  snappy,  really  witty  retorts. 

"Is  that  so,  Jew?"     He  stared  at  Ginsburg 

and  a  derisive  grin  opened  a  gap  in  his  broad 

__ 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

dark  face.  "Oh,  be  chee!  We  ain't  strangers 
— you  and  me  ain't!  We've  met  before — 
when  we  was  kids.  Down  in  Henry  Street, 
it  was.  I  put  me  mark  on  you  oncet,  and  if  I 
ever  feel  like  it  I'll  do  it  again  sometime." 

Like  a  match  under  shavings  the  words 
kindled  half-forgotten  memories  in  the  young 
detective's  brain  and  now — for  his  part — 
recognition  came  flashing  back  out  of  the  past. 

"I  thought  so,"  he  said,  choosing  to  ignore  the 
gangster  and  addressing  Casane.  "I  thought 
from  the  first  Gorman  wasn't  his  right  name. 
I've  forgotten  what  his  right  name  is,  but  it's 
nothing  that  sounds  like  Gorman.  He's  a  wop. 
I  went  to  the  same  school  with  him  over  on  the 
East  Side  a  good  many  years  ago." 

"Don't  forget  to  tell  him  how  the  wop  licked 
the  Jew,"  broke  in  the  prisoner.  "Remember 
how  the  scrap  started?" 

He  spat  again  and  this  time  he  did  not  miss. 
Ginsburg  put  up  his  gloved  hand  and  wiped 
clean  a  face  that  with  passion  had  turned  a 
mottle  of  red-and- white  blotches.  His  voice 
shook  from  the  strain  of  his  effort  to  control 
himself. 

"I'll  get  you  for  that,"  he  said  quietly. 
"And  I'll  get  you  good.  The  day '11  come 
when  I'll  walk  you  in  broad  daylight  up  to  the 
big  chief,  and  I'll  have  the  goods  on  you  too." 

"Forget  it,"  jeered  the  ruffian  triumphantly. 
Before  the  eyes  of  his  satellites  he  had — by  his 
standards — acquitted  himself  right  creditably. 
" [272] 


JOHN      J.      COINCIDENCE 

"You  got  notliin'  on  me  now,  Jew,  and  you 
never  will  have.  Well,  come  on,  you  bulls, 
let's  be  goin'  along.  I  wouldn't  want  the 
neither  one  of  you  for  steady  company.  One 
of  you  is  too  polite  and  the  other'n  too  meek 
for  my  tastes." 

The  man  who  was  called  Stretchy  Gorman 
spoke  a  prophetic  word  when  he  said  the 
police  had  nothing  on  him.  Since  they  had 
nothing  on  him,  he  was  let  go  after  forty-eight 
hours  of  detention;  but  that  is  not  saying  they 
did  not  intend,  if  they  could — and  in  such 
cases  they  usually  can — to  get  something  on 
him. 

No  man  in  the  department  had  better  reason 
to  crave  that  consummation  than  Hyman  Gins- 
burg  had.  With  him  the  hope  of  achieving 
revenge  became  practically  an  obsession.  It 
rode  in  his  thoughts.  Any  hour,  in  a  cam 
paign  to  harry  the  gangster  to  desperation  by 
means  of  methods  that  are  common  enough 
inside  the  department,  he  might  have  invoked 
competent  and  willing  assistance,  for  the  word 
had  filtered  down  from  on  high,  where  the  seats 
of  the  mighty  are,  that  those  mysterious  forces 
aloft  would  look  complacently  upon  the  eternal 
undoing  of  the  Stretchy  Gormans  and  their 
titular  leader,  no  matter  how  accomplished. 

But  this  notion  did  not  match  in  with  the 
colour  of  Ginsburg's  desires.  Single-handed,  he 
meant  to  do  the  trick.  Most  probably  then 
[273] 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

the  credit  would  be  all  his;  assuredly  the  satis 
faction  would.  When  he  considered  this  pros 
pect  his  mind  ran  back  along  old  grooves  to  the 
humiliating  beating  he  had  suffered  in  front  of 
the  Henry  Street  school  so  long  before  and  of  a 
most  painful  strapping  that  followed;  these 
being  coupled  always  with  a  later  memory  scar 
of  a  grievous  insult  endured  in  the  line  of  duty 
and  all  the  more  hateful  because  it  had  been 
endured. 

Once  Ginsburg  had  read  a  book  out  of  a 
public  library — a  book  which  mentally  he  called 
Less  Miserables.  Through  the  pages  of  that 
book  there  had  walked  a  detective  whom  Gins- 
burg  in  his  mind  knew  by  the  name  of  Jawbert. 
Now  he  recalled  how  this  Jawbert  spent  his 
life  tracking  down  an  offender  who  was  the 
main  hero  of  the  book.  He  told  himself  that 
in  the  matter  of  Stretchy  Gorman  he  would  be 
as  another  Jawbert. 

By  way  of  a  beginning  he  took  advantage  of 
leisure  hours  to  trace  out  the  criminal  history 
of  his  destined  victim.  In  the  gallery  he  found 
numbered  and  classified  photographs;  in  the 
Bertillon  bureau,  finger  prints;  and  in  the 
records,  what  else  he  lacked  of  information — 
as  an  urchin,  so  many  years  spent  in  the  pro 
tectory;  as  a  youth,  so  many  years  in  the  re 
formatory;  as  a  man,  a  year  on  Blackwell's 
Island  for  a  misdemeanour  and  a  three-year 
term  at  Sing  Sing  for  a  felony;  also  he  dug  up 
the  entry  of  an  indictment  yet  standing  on 


JOHN      J.      COINCIDENCE 

which  trial  had  never  been  held  for  lack  of 
proof  to  convict;  finally  a  long  list  of  arrests  for 
this  and  that  and  the  other  thing,  unproved. 
From  under  a  succession  of  aliases  he  uncovered 
Gorman's  real  name. 

But  a  sequence  of  events  delayed  his  fuller 
assumption  of  the  role  of  Jawbert.  He  was 
sent  to  Rio  de  Janeiro  to  bring  back  an  abscon- 
der  of  note.  Six  months  he  worked  on  the 
famous  Gonzales  child-stealing  mystery.  He 
made  two  trips  out  to  the  Pacific  Coast  in  con 
nection  with  the  Chappy  Morgan  wire-tapping 
cases.  Few  of  the  routine  jobs  about  the 
detective  bureau  fell  to  him.  He  was  too  good 
for  routine  and  his  superiors  recognised  the 
fact  and  were  governed  thereby. 

By  the  rules  of  tradition,  Ginsburg — as  a 
successful  detective — should  have  been  either  an 
Irishman  or  of  Irish  descent.  But  in  the  second 
biggest  police  force  in  the  world,  wherein  twenty 
per  cent  of  the  personnel  wear  names  that 
betoken  Jewish,  Slavic  or  Latin  forebears, 
tradition  these  Jtimes  suffers  many  a  body 
wallop. 

On  a  night  in  early  April,  Ginsburg,  coming 
across  from  New  Jersey,  landed  off  a  ferryboat 
at  Christopher  Street.  He  had  gone  across  the 
river  to  gather  up  a  loose  end  of  the  evidence 
accumulating  against  Chappy  Morgan,  king 
of  the  wireless  wire-tappers.  It  was  nearly 
midnight  when  he  emerged  from  the  ferryhouse. 
In  sight  was  no  surface  car;  so  he  set  out  afoot 

__ 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

to  walk  across  town  to  where  he  lived  on  the 
East  Side. 

Going  through  a  side  street  in  a  district 
which  mainly  is  given  over  to  the  establish 
ments  of  textile  jobbers,  he  observed,  half  a 
block  away,  a  fire  escape  that  bore  strange 
fruit.  The  front  line  of  a  stretch  of  tallish 
buildings  stood  out  in  relief  against  the  back 
ground  of  a  wet  moon  and  showed  him,  high 
up  on  the  iron  ladder  which  flighted  down  the 
face  of  one  house  of  the  row,  two  dark  clumps, 
one  placed  just  above  the  other. 

Ginsburg  slipped  into  a  protecting  ledge  of 
shadow  close  up  against  the  buildings  and  edged 
along  nearer.  The  clumps  resolved  into  the 
figures  of  men.  One — the  uppermost  shape  of 
a  man — was  receiving  from  some  unseen  sources 
flat  burdens  that  came  down  over  the  roof 
coping  and  passing  them  along  to  the  accom 
plice  below.  The  latter  in  turn  stacked  them 
upon  the  grilled  floor  of  the  fire  balcony  that 
projected  out  into  space  at  the  level  of  the 
fourth  floor,  the  building  being  five  floors  in 
height.  By  chance  Ginsburg  had  happened 
upon  a  loft-robbing  enterprise. 

He  shifted  his  revolver  from  his  hip  pocket  to 
the  side  pocket  of  his  overcoat  and  crept  closer, 
planning  for  the  pair  so  intently  engaged  over 
head  a  surprise  when  they  should  descend  with 
their  loot.  There  was  no  time  now  to  seek 
out  the  patrolman  on  the  post;  the  job  must  be 

all  his. 

[276] 


JOHN      J.      COINCIDENCE 

Two  doors  from  the  building  that  had  been 
entered  he  crept  noiselessly  down  into  a  base 
ment  and  squatted  behind  an  ash  barrel.  It 
was  inky  black  in  there;  so  inkily  black  he 
never  suspected  that  the  recess  held  another 
tenant.  Your  well-organised  loft-robbing  mob 
carries  along  a  lookout  who  in  case  of  discovery 
gives  warning;  in  case  of  attack,  repels  the 
attack,  and  in  case  of  pursuit  acts  as  rear  guard. 
In  Stretchy  Gorman's  operations  Stretchy  acted 
as  his  own  lookout,  and  a  highly  competent  one 
he  was,  too,  with  a  preference  for  lurking  in 
area  ways  while  his  lieutenants  carried  forward 
the  more  arduous  but  less  responsible  shares  of 
the  undertaking. 

In  the  darkness  behind  Ginsburg  where  he 
crouched  a  long  gorilla's  arm  of  an  arm  reached 
outward  and  downward,  describing  an  arc. 
You  might  call  it  the  long  arm  of  coincidence 
and  be  making  no  mistake  either.  At  the  end 
of  the  arm  was  a  fist  and  in  the  fist  a  length  of 
gas  pipe  wrapped  in  rags.  This  gas  pipe  de 
scended  upon  the  back  of  Ginsburg's  skull, 
crushing  through  the  derby  hat  he  wore.  And 
the  next  thing  Ginsburg  knew  he  was  in  St. 
Vincent's  Hospital  with  a  splitting  headache 
and  the  United  States  Government  had  gone 
to  war  against  the  German  Empire. 

Ginsburg    did    not    volunteer.     The    parent 
who  once  had  wielded  the  disciplinary  strap- 
end  so  painstakingly  had  long  since  rejoined 
his  bearded  ancestors,  but  there  was  a  depen- 
[277] 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

dent  mother  to  be  cared  for  and  a  whole  covey 
of  younger  brothers  and  sisters  to  be  shepherded 
through  school  and  into  sustaining  employ 
ment.  So  he  waited  for  the  draft,  and  when 
the  draft  took  him  and  his  number  came  out 
in  the  drawing,  as  it  very  soon  did,  he  waived 
his  exemptions  and  went  to  training  camp 
wearing  an  old  suit  of  clothes  and  an  easy  pair 
of  shoes.  Presently  he  found  himself  trans 
ferred  to  a  volunteer  outfit — one  of  the  very  few 
draft  men  who  were  to  serve  with  that  outfit. 

In  camp  the  discipline  he  had  acquired  and 
the  drilling  he  had  done  in  his  prentice  days  on 
the  force  stood  him  in  good  stead.  Hard  work 
trimmed  off  of  him  the  layers  of  tissue  he  had 
begun  to  take  on;  plain  solid  food  finished  the 
job  of  unlarding  his  frame.  Shortly  he  was 
Corporal  Ginsburg — a  trim  upstanding  cor 
poral.  Then  he  became  Sergeant  Ginsburg  and 
soon  after  this  was  Second  Sergeant  Ginsburg  of 
B  Company  of  a  regiment  still  somewhat 
sketchy  and  ragged  in  its  make-up,  but  with 
promise  of  good  stuff  to  emerge  from  the  mass 
of  its  material.  When  his  regiment  and  his 
division  went  overseas,  First  Sergeant  Ginsburg 
went  along  too. 

The  division  had  started  out  by  being  a 
national  guard  division;  almost  exclusively  its 
rank  and  file  had  been  city  men — rich  men's 
sons  from  uptown,  poor  men's  sons  with  jaw- 
breaking  names  from  the  tenements.  At  the 
beginning  the  acting  major  general  in  command 
[278] 


JOHN      J.      COINCIDENCE 

had  been  fond  of  boasting  that  he  had  repre 
sentatives  of  thirty-two  nations  and  practi 
tioners  of  fifty -four  creeds  and  cults  in  his  outfit. 
Before  very  long  he  might  truthfully  expand 
both  these  figures. 

To  stopper  the  holes  made  by  the  wear  and 
tear  of  intensive  training,  the  attritions  of  sick 
ness  and  of  transfers,  the  losses  by  death  and  by 
wounding  as  suffered  in  the  first  small  spells  of 
campaigning,  replacements  came  up  from  the 
depots,  enriching  the  local  colour  of  the  division 
with  new  types  and  strange  accents.  Southern 
mountaineers,  Western  ranch  hands  and  farm 
boys  from  the  Middle  States  came  along  to  find 
mates  among  Syrians,  Jews,  Italians,  Arme 
nians  and  Greeks.  Cotton  Belt,  Corn  Belt, 
Wheat  Belt  and  Timber  Belt  contributed. 
Born  feudists  became  snipers,  counter  jumpers 
became  fencibles,  yokels  became  drillmasters, 
sweat-shop  hands  became  sharpshooters,  aliens 
became  Americans,  an  ex- janitor — Austrian- 
born — became  a  captain,  a  rabble  became  an 
organised  unit;  the  division  became  a  tempered 
mettlesome  lance — springy,  sharp  and  depend 
able. 

This  miracle  so  often  repeated  itself  in  our 
new  army  that  it  ceased  to  be  miraculous  and 
became  commonplace.  During  its  enactment 
we  as  a  nation  accepted  it  with  calmness,  almost 
with  indifference.  I  expect  our  grandchildren 
will  marvel  at  it  and  among  them  will  be  some 
who  will  write  large,  fat  books  about  it. 


FROM    PLACE;    TO    PLACE 

On  that  great  day  when  a  new  definition  for 
the  German  equivalent  of  the  English  word 
"impregnable"  was  furnished  by  men  who  went 
up  to  battle  swearfully  or  prayerfully,  as  the 
case  might  be,  a-swearing  and  a-praying  as  they 
went  in  more  tongues  than  were  babbled  at 
Babel  Tower;  in  other  words,  on  the  day  when 
the  never-to-be-broken  Hindenburg  line  was 
broken  through  and  through,  a  battalion  of  one 
of  the  infantry  regiments  of  this  same  polyglot 
division  formed  a  little  individual  ground  swell 
in  the  first  wave  of  attack. 

That  chill  and  gloomy  hour  when  condemned 
men  and  milkmen  rise  up  from  where  they  lie, 
when  sick  folk  die  in  their  beds  and  the  drowsy 
birds  begin  to  chirp  themselves  awake  found 
the  men  of  this  particular  battalion  in  shallow 
front-line  trenches  on  the  farther  edge  of  a 
birch  thicket.  There  they  crouched,  awaiting 
the  word.  The  flat  cold  taste  of  before  sunup 
was  clammy  in  their  throats;  the  smell  of  the 
fading  nighttime  was  in  their  nostrils. 

And  in  the  heart  of  every  man  of  them  that 
man  over  and  over  again  asked  himself  a  ques 
tion.  He  asked  himself  whether  his  will 
power — which  meant  his  soul — was  going  to  be 
strong  enough  to  drag  his  reluctant  body  along 
with  it  into  what  impended.  You  see,  with  a 
very  few  exceptions  none  of  this  outfit  had  been 
beyond  the  wires  before.  They  had  been  under 
fire,  some  of  them — fire  of  gas  shells  and  of  shrap- 
nel  and  of  high  explosives  in  dugouts  or  in  rear 
[280] 


JOHN      J.      COINCIDENCE 

positions  or  as  they  passed  along  roads  lying 
under  gun  range  of  the  enemy.  But  this 
matter  would  be  different;  this  experience  would 
widely  differ  from  any  they  had  undergone. 
This  meant  going  out  into  the  open  to  walk  up 
against  machine-gun  fire  and  small-arm  fire. 
So  each  one  asked  himself  the  question. 

Take  a  thousand  fighting  men.  For  purposes 
of  argument  let  us  say  that  when  the  test  of 
fighting  comes  five  men  out  of  that  thousand 
cannot  readjust  their  nerves  to  the  prospect  of 
a  violent  end  by  powder  and  ball  from  unseen 
sources.  Under  other  circumstances  any  one 
of  the  five  might  face  a  peril  greater  than  that 
which  now  confronts  him.  Conceivably  he 
might  flop  into  a  swollen  river  to  save  a  drown 
ing  puppy;  might  dive  into  a  burning  building 
after  some  stranger's  pet  tabby  cat.  But  this 
prospect  which  lies  before  him  of  ambling  across 
a  field  with  death  singing  about  his  ears,  is  a 
thing  which  tears  with  clawing  fingers  at  the 
tuggs  and  toggles  of  his  imagination  until  his 
flesh  revolts  to  the  point  where  it  refuses  the 
dare.  It  is  such  a  man  that  courts-martial 
and  the  world  at  large  miscall  by  the  hateful 
name  of  coward. 

Out  of  the  remaining  nine  hundred  and 
ninety-five  are  five  more — as  we  allow — who 
have  so  little  of  perception,  who  are  so  stolid, 
so  dull  of  wit  and  apprehension  that  they  go 
into  battle  unmoved,  unshaken,  unthinking. 
This  leaves  nine  hundred  and  ninety  who  are 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

afraid — sorely  and  terribly  afraid.  They  are 
afraid  of  being  killed,  afraid  of  being  crippled, 
afraid  of  venturing  out  where  killings  and 
cripplings  are  carried  on  as  branches  of  a  highly 
specialised  business. 

But  at  the  last  they  find  that  they  fear  just 
one  thing  more  than  they  fear  death  and  dis 
memberment;  and  that  this  one  supremest 
thing  is  the  fear  that  those  about  them  may 
discover  how  terribly  afraid  they  are.  It  is  this 
greater  fear,  overriding  all  those  lesser  terrors, 
that  makes  over  ordinary  men  into  leaders  of 
forlorn  hopes,  into  holders  of  last  ditches,  into 
bearers  of  heroic  blazons,  into  sleepers  under 
memorial  shafts  erected  by  the  citizens  of  a 
proud,  a  grateful  and  a  sorrowing  country. 
A  sense  of  self-respect  is  a  terrific  responsi 
bility. 

Under  this  double  stress,  torn  in  advance 
of  the  actual  undertaking  by  primitive  emotions 
pulling  in  opposite  directions,  men  bear  them 
selves  after  curious  but  common  fashions.  To 
a  psychologist  twenty  men  chosen  at  random 
from  the  members  of  the  battalion,  waiting 
there  in  the  edge  of  the  birch  thicket  for  their 
striking  hour  to  come,  would  have  offered 
twenty  contrasting  subjects  for  study. 

Here  was  a  man  all  deathly  white,  who  spoke 
never  a  word,  but  who  retched  with  sharp 
painful  sounds  and  kept  his  free  hand  gripped 
into  his  cramping  belly.  That  dread  of  being 
hit  in  the  bowels  which  so  many  men  have  at 
[  282  ] 


JOHN      J.      COINCIDENCE 

moments  like  this  was  making  him  physically 
sick. 

Here  again  was  a  man  who  made  jokes  about 
cold  feet  and  yellow  streaks  and  the  chances  of 
death  and  the  like  and  laughed  at  his  own  jokes. 
But  there  was  a  quiver  of  barely  checked  hys 
teria  in  his  laughing  and  his  eyes  shone  like  the 
eyes  of  a  man  in  a  fever  and  the  sweat  kept 
popping  out  in  little  beads  on  his  face. 

Here  again  was  a  man  who  swore  constantly 
in  a  monotonous  undertone.  Always  I  am 
reading  where  a  man  of  my  race  under  strain 
or  provocation  coins  new  and  apt  and  pictur 
esque  oaths ;  but  myself,  I  have  never  seen  such 
a  man.  I  should  have  seen  him,  too,  if  he 
really  existed  anywhere  except  in  books,  seeing 
that  as  a  boy  I  knew  many  steamboat  mates 
on  Southern  waters  and  afterward  met  socially 
many  and  divers  mule  drivers  and  horse 
wranglers  in  the  great  West. 

But  it  has  been  my  observation  that  in  the 
matter  of  oaths  the  Anglo-Saxon  tongue  is 
strangely  lacking  in  variety  and  spice.  There 
are  a  few  stand-by  oaths — three  or  four  nouns, 
two  or  three  adjectives,  one  double- join  ted 
adjective — and  these  invariably  are  employed 
over  and  over  again.  The  which  was  un 
deniably  true  in  this  particular  instance.  This 
man  who  swore  so  steadily  merely  repeated, 
times  without  number  and  presumably  with 
reference  to  the  Germans,  the  unprettiest  and 
at  the  same  time  the  most  familiar  name  of 


FROM      PLACE     TO      PLACE 

compounded  opprobrium  that  our  deficient 
language  yields. 

For  the  fiftieth  time  in  half  as  many  minutes, 
a  captain — his  name  was  Captain  Griswold 
and  he  was  the  captain  of  B  Company — con 
sulted  the  luminous  face  of  his  wrist  watch 
where  he  stooped  behind  shelter.  He  spoke 
then,  and  his  voice  was  plainly  to  be  heard 
under  the  whistle  and  whoop  of  the  shells 
passing  over  his  head  from  the  supporting 
batteries  behind  with  intent  to  fall  in  the  sup 
posed  defences  of  the  enemy  in  front.  Great 
sounds  would  have  been  lost  in  that  crashing 
tumult;  by  one  of  the  paradoxes  of  battle 
lesser  sounds  were  easily  audible. 

"All  right,"  said  Captain  Griswold,  "it's 
time!  If  some  damn  fool  hasn't  gummed 
things  up  the  creeping  barrage  should  be 
starting  out  yonder  and  everything  is  set. 
Come  on,  men — let's  go!" 

They  went,  each  still  behaving  according  to 
his  own  mode.  The  man  with  the  gripes  who 
retched  was  still  retching  as  he  heaved  himself 
up  over  the  parapet;  the  man  who  had  laughed 
was  still  laughing;  the  man  who  had  sworn  was 
mechanically  continuing  to  repeat  that  naughty 
pet  name  of  his  for  the  Fritzies.  Nobody, 
though,  called  on  anybody  else  to  defend  the 
glory  of  the  flag;  nobody  invited  anybody  to 
remember  the  Lusitania;  nobody  spoke  a  single 
one  of  the  fine  speeches  which  the  bushelmen  of 
fiction  at  home  were  even  then  thinking  up  to 


JOHN     J.      COINCIDENCE 

put   into    the   mouths    of    men    moving    into 
battle. 

Indeed,  not  in  any  visible  regard  was  the 
scene  marked  by  drama.  Merely  some  mud 
died  men  burdened  with  ironmongery  and 
bumpy  with  gas  masks  and  ammunition  packs 
climbed  laboriously  out  of  a  slit  in  the  wet 
earth  and  in  squads — single  filing,  one  man 
behind  the  next  as  directly  as  might  be — 
stepped  along  through  a  pale,  sad,  slightly 
misty  light  at  rather  a  deliberate  pace,  to 
traverse  a  barb-wired  meadowland  which  rose 
before  them  at  a  gentle  incline.  There  was  no 
firing  of  guns,  no  waving  of  swords.  There 
were  no  swords  to  wave.  There  was  no  enemy 
in  sight  and  no  evidence  as  yet  that  they  had 
been  sighted  by  any  enemy.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  none  of  them — neither  those  who  fell  nor 
those  who  lived — saw  on  that  day  a  single 
living  individual  recognisable  as  a  German. 

A  sense  of  enormous  isolation  encompassed 
them.  They  seemed  to  be  all  alone  in  a  corner 
of  the  world  that  was  peopled  by  diabolical 
sounds,  but  not  by  humans.  They  had  a 
feeling  that  because  of  an  error  in  the  plans 
they  had  been  sent  forward  without  supports; 
that  they — a  puny  handful — were  to  be  sacri 
ficed  under  the  haunches  of  the  Hindenburg 
line  while  all  those  thousands  of  others  who 
should  have  been  their  companions  upon  this 
adventure  bided  safely  behind,  held  back  by 
the  countermand  which  through  some  hideous 
_  „..  _-  [285]  


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

blunder  had  failed  to  reach  them  in  time. 
But  they  went  on.  Orders  were  to  go  on — and 
order,  plus  discipline,  plus  the  individual's 
sense  of  responsibility,  plus  that  fear  of  his 
that  his  mates  may  know  how  fearful  of  other 
things  he  is — make  it  possible  for  armies  to 
be  armies  instead  of  mobs  and  for  battles  to  be 
won. 

They  went  on  until  they  came  to  an  invisible 
line  drawn  lengthwise  across  the  broad  way  of 
the  weed  field,  and  here  men  began  to  drop 
down.  Mainly  those  stricken  slid  gently  for 
ward  to  lie  on  their  stomachs.  Only  here  and 
there  was  there  a  man  who  spun  about  to  fall 
face  upward.  Those  who  were  wounded,  but 
not  overthrown,  would  generally  sit  down  quite 
gently  and  quite  deliberately,  with  puzzled 
looks  in  their  eyes.  Since  still  there  was  neither 
sign  nor  sight  of  the  well-hidden  enemy  the 
thought  took  root  in  the  minds  of  the  men  as 
yet  unscathed  that,  advancing  too  fast,  they 
had  been  caught  in  the  drop  curtain  of  their 
own  barrage. 

Sergeant  Hyman  Ginsburg,  going  along  at 
the  head  of  his  squad,  got  this  notion  quite  well 
fixed  in  his  mind.  Then,  though,  he  saw 
smoke  jets  issuing  from  bushes  and  trees  on 
ahead  of  him  where  the  ridges  of  the  slope 
sharpened  up  acutely  into  a  sort  of  natural 
barrier  like  a  wall;  and  likewise  for  the  first 
time  he  now  heard  the  tat-tat-tat  of  machine 
guns,  sounding  like  the  hammers  of  pneumatic 
~ [286] 


JOHN      J.      COINCIDENCE 

riveters  rapidly  operated.  To  him  it  seemed  a 
proper  course  that  his  squad  should  take  such 
cover  as  the  lay  of  the  land  afforded  and  fire 
back  toward  the  machine  guns.  But  since  the 
instructions,  so  far  as  he  knew  them,  called  for 
a  steady  advance  up  to  within  a  few  rods  of  the 
enemy's  supposed  position  and  then  a  quick 
rush  forward,  he  gave  no  such  command  to  his 
squad. 

Suddenly  he  became  aware  that  off  to  the 
right  the  forward  movement  of  the  battalion 
was  checking  up.  Then,  all  in  an  instant, 
men  on  both  sides  were  falling  back.  He  and 
his  squad  were  enveloped  in  a  reverse  move 
ment.  It  seemed  too  bad  that  the  battalion 
should  be  driven  in  after  suffering  these  casual 
ties  and  without  having  dealt  a  blow  in  return 
for  the  punishment  it  had  undergone.  But 
what  did  it  matter  if,  after  all,  they  were  being 
sacrificed  vainly  as  the  result  of  a  hideous  mis 
take  at  divisional  headquarters?  Better  to 
save  what  was  left. 

So  far  as  he  could  tell,  nobody  gave  the  word 
to  retire.  He  found  himself  going  back  at  the 
tail  of  his  squad  where  before  he  had  been  its 
head.  Subconsciously  he  was  surprised  to 
observe  that  the  copse  from  which  they  had 
emerged  but  a  minute  or  two  earlier,  as  he  had 
imagined,  was  a  considerable  distance  away 
from  them,  now  that  they  had  set  their  faces 
toward  it.  It  did  not  seem  possible  that  they 
could  have  left  it  so  far  behind  them.  Yet 
[287]  


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

returning  to  it  the  men  did  not  perceptibly  hurry 
their  steps.  They  retreated  without  evidences 
of  disorder — almost  reluctantly — as  though  by 
this  very  slowness  of  movement  to  signify 
their  disgust  for  the  supposed  fiasco  that  had 
enveloped  them,  causing  them,  to  waste  lives 
in  an  ill-timed  and  futile  endeavour. 

Ginsburg  reentered  the  covert  of  birches 
with  a  sense  of  gratitude  for  its  protection 
and  let  himself  down  into  the  trench.  He 
faced  about,  peering  over  its  rim,  and  saw 
that  his  captain — Captain  Griswold — was  just 
behind  him,  returning  all  alone  and  looking 
back  over  his  shoulder  constantly. 

Captain  Griswold  was  perhaps  twenty  yards 
from  the  thicket  when  he  clasped  both  hands 
to  the  pit  of  his  stomach  and  slipped  down  flat 
in  the  trampled  herbage.  In  that  same  moment 
Ginsburg  saw  how  many  invisible  darting 
objects,  which  must  of  course  be  machine-gun 
bullets,  were  mowing  the  weed  stems  about  the 
spot  where  the  captain  had  gone  down.  Bits 
of  turf  flew  up  in  showers  as  the  leaden  blasts, 
spraying  down  from  the  top  of  the  ridge,  bored 
into  the  earth. 

Well,  somebody  would  have  to  bring  the 
captain  in  out  of  that.  He  laid  his  rifle  against 
the  wall  of  the  trench  and  climbed  out  again 
into  plain  view.  So  far  as  he  knew  he  was 
going  as  a  solitary  volunteer  upon  this  errand. 
He  put  one  arm  across  his  face,  like  a  man 
fending  off  rain  drops,  and  ran  bent  forward. 
[288  ] 


JOHN      J.      COINCIDENCE 

The  captain,  when  he  reached  him,  was  lying 
upon  his  side  with  his  face  turned  away  from 
Ginsburg  and  his  shrapnel  helmet  half  on  and 
half  off  his  head.  Ginsburg  stooped,  putting 
his  hands  under  the  pits  of  the  captain's  arms, 
and  gave  a  heave.  The  burden  of  the  body 
came  against  him  as  so  much  dead  heft;  a 
weight  limp  and  unresponsive,  the  trunk  sag 
ging,  the  limbs  loose  and  unguided. 

Ginsburg  felt  a  hard  buffet  in  his  right  side. 
It  wasn't  a  blow  exactly;  it  was  more  like  a 
clout  from  a  heavily -shod  blunt-ended  brogan. 
His  last  registered  impression  as  he  collapsed 
on  top  of  the  captain  was  that  someone, 
hurrying  up  to  aid  him,  had  stumbled  and 
driven  a  booted  toe  into  his  ribs.  Thereafter 
for  a  space  events — in  so  far  as  Ginsburg's  mind 
recorded  them — were  hazy,  with  gaps  between 
of  complete  forgetfulness.  He  felt  no  pain  to 
speak  of,  but  busybodies  kept  bothering  him. 
It  drowsily  annoyed  him  to  be  dragged  about, 
to  be  lifted  up  and  to  be  put  down  again,  to  be 
pawed  over  by  unseen,  dimly  comprehended 
hands,  to  be  ridden  in  a  careening,  bumping 
vehicle  for  what  seemed  to  him  hours  and 
hours.  Finally,  when  he  was  striving  to  re 
organise  his  faculties  for  the  utterance  of  a 
protest,  someone  put  something  over  his  nose 
and  he  went  sound  asleep. 

Ensued  then  a  measureless  period  when  he 
slept  and  dreamed  strange  jumbled  dreams. 
He  awakened,  clear  enough  in  his  thoughts, 
"  "  ~~  "  [289] 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

but  beset  with  a  queer  giddiness  and  a  weakness, 
in  a  hospital  sixteen  miles  from  where  the  mix- 
up  had  started,  though  he  didn't  know  about 
that  of  course  until  subsequent  inquiry  enabled 
him  to  piece  together  a  number  of  fragmentary 
recollections.  For  the  present  he  was  content 
to  realise  that  he  lay  on  a  comfortable  cot  under 
a  tight  roof  and  that  he  had  his  full  complement 
of  arms  and  legs  and  could  move  them,  though 
when  he  moved  the  right  leg  the  ankle  hurt  him. 
Also  he  had  a  queer  squeezed-in  sensation  amid 
ships  as  though  broad  straps  had  been  buckled 
tightly  about  his  trunk. 

Upon  top  of  these  discoveries  came  another. 
Sitting  up  in  the  next-hand  cot  to  his  on  the 
right  was  a  member  of  his  own  company,  one 
Paul  Dempsey,  now  rather  elaborately  ban 
daged  as  to  his  head  and  shoulders,  but  seem 
ingly  otherwise  in  customary  good  order  and 
spirits. 

"Hello,  Dempsey,"  he  said. 

"Hello,  sarge,"  answered  back  Dempsey. 
"How  you  feelin'  by  now — all  right?" 

"Guess  so.  My  ankle  is  sprained  or  some 
thing  and  my  side  feels  sort  of  funny." 

"I  shouldn't  wonder,"  said  Dempsey.  "I 
got  a  dippy  kind  of  feelin'  inside  my  own  head 
piece — piece  of  shell  casin'  come  and  beaned 
me.  It  don't  amount  to  much,  though;  just 
enough  to  get  me  a  wound  stripe.  You're  the 
lucky  guy,  sarge.  Maybe  it's  so  you  won't 

have  to  go  back  and  prob'ly  I  will." 

[290] 


JOHN      J.     COINCIDENCE 

The  speaker  sighed  and  grinned  and  then 
confessed  to  a  great  perception  which  many 
before  him  had  known  and  which  many  were 
to  know  afterward,  but  which  some — less  frank 
than  he — have  sought  to  conceal. 

"I'll  go  back  of  course  if  they  need  me — 
and  if  I  have  to — but  I'd  just  as  lief  not.  You 
kin  take  it  from  me,  I've  had  plenty  of  this 
gettin'  all-shot-up  business.  Oncet  is  enough 
for  First-Class  Private  Dempsey. 

"Say,"  he  went  on,  "looks  like  you  and  me 
are  goin'  partners  a  lot  here  lately.  I  get  mine 
right  after  you  get  yours.  We  ride  back  here 
together  in  the  same  tin  Lizzie — you  and  me 
do — and  now  here  we  are  side  by  each  again. 
Well,  there's  a  lot  of  the  fellows  we  won't 
neither  of  us  see  no  more.  But  their  lives 
wasn't  wasted,  at  that.  I  betcher  there's  a 
lot  of  German  bein'  spoke  in  hell  these  last  two 
or  three  days. 

"Oh,  you  ain't  heard  the  big  news,  have  you? 
Bein'  off  your  dip  and  out  of  commission  like 
you  was.  Well,  we  busted  old  Mister  Hinden- 
burg's  line  in  about  nine  places  and  now  it 
looks  like  maybe  we'll  eat  Thanksgivin'  dinner 
in  Berlin  or  Hoboken — one." 

Dempsey  went  on  and  every  word  that  he 
uttered  was  news — how  the  seemingly  pre 
mature  advance  of  the  battalion  had  not  been  a 
mistake  at  all;  how  the  only  slip  was  that  the 
battalion  walked  into  a  whole  cote  of  unsus- 
pected  machine-gun  nests,  but  how  the  second 
[291]  


FROM      PLACE     TO      PLACE 

battalion  going  up  and  round  the  shore  of  the 
hill  to  the  left  had  taken  the  boche  on  the 
flank  and  cleaned  him  out  of  his  pretty  little 
ambuscade;  how  there  were  tidings  of  great 
cheer  filtering  back  from  all  along  the  line 
and  so  forth  and  so  on.  Ginsburg  broke  in 
on  him: 

"How's  Captain  Griswold?" 

"Oh,  the  cap  was  as  good  as  dead  when  this 
here  guy,  Goodman,  fetched  him  in  on  his 
back  after  he'd  went  out  after  you  fell  and 
fetched  you  back  in  first.  I  seen  the  whole 
thing  myself — it  was  right  after  that  that  I 
got  beaned.  One  good  scout,  the  cap  was. 
And  there  ain't  nothin'  wrong  with  this  Good 
man,  neither;  you  kin  take  it  from  me." 

"Goodman?"  Ginsburg  pondered.  The 
name  was  a  strange  one.  "Say,  was  it  this 
Goodman  that  kicked  me  in  the  ribs  while  I 
was  try  in'  to  pick  up  the  captain?" 

"Kicked  you  nothin'!  You  got  a  machine- 
gun  bullet  glancin'  on  your  short  ribs  and  acrost 
your  chest  right  under  the  skin — that  was 
what  put  you  down  and  out.  And  then  just 
as  Goodman  fetched  you  in  acrost  over  the  top 
here  come  another  lot  of  machine-gun  bullets, 
and  one  of  'em  drilled  you  through  the  ankle 
and  another  one  of  them  bored  Goodman  clean 
through  the  shoulder;  but  that  didn't  keep  him 
from  goin'  right  back  out  there,  shot  up  like 
he  was,  after  the  captain.  Quick  as  a  cat  that 
guy  was  and  strong  as  a  bull.  Naw,  Goodman 

[292] 


JOHN      J.      COINCIDENCE 

he  never  kicked  you — that  was  a  little  chunk 
of  lead  kicked  you." 

"But  I  didn't  feel  any  pain  like  a  bullet," 
protested  Ginsburg.  "It  was  more  like  a  hard 
wallop  with  a  club  or  a  boot." 

"Say,  that's  a  funny  thing  too,"  said  Demp- 
sey.  "You're  always  readin'  about  the  sharp 
dartin'  pain  a  bullet  makes,  and  yet  nearly 
everybody  that  gets  hit  comes  out  of  his  trance 
ready  to  swear  a  mule  muster  kicked  him  or 
somethin'.  I  guess  that  sharp-dartin'-pain 
stuff  runs  for  Sweeney;  the  guys  that  write 
about  it  oughter  get  shot  up  themselves  oncet. 
Then  they'd  know." 

"This  Goodman,  now?"  queried  Ginsburg, 
trying  to  chamber  many  impressions  at  once. 
"I  don't  seem  to  place  him.  He  wasn't  in  B 
Company?" 

"Naw!  He's  out  of  D  Company.  He's 
a  new  guy.  He's  out  of  a  bunch  of  replace 
ments  that  come  up  for  D  Company  only  the 
day  before  yistiddy.  Well,  for  a  green  hand  he 
certainly  handled  himself  like  one  old-timer." 

Dempsey,  aged  nineteen,  spoke  as  the  grizzled 
veteran  of  many  campaigns  might  have  spoken. 

"Yes,  sir!  He  certainly  snatched  you  out 
of  a  damn  bad  hole  in  jig  time." 

"I'd  like  to  have  a  look  at  him,"  said  Gins 
burg.  "And  my  old  mother  back  home  would, 
too,  I  know." 

"Your  mother'll  have  to  wait,  but  you  kin 
have  your  wish,"  said  Dempsey  gleefully.  He 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

had  been  saving  his  biggest  piece  of  news  for 
the  last.  "If  you've  got  anything  to  ask  him 
just  ask  him.  He's  layin'  there — right  over 
there  on  the  other  side  of  you.  We  all  three  of 
us  rode  down  here  together  in  the  same  amb'- 
lance  load." 

Ginsburg  turned  his  head.  Above  the  blan 
ket  that  covered  the  figure  of  his  cot  neighbour 
on  the  right  he  looked  into  the  face  of  the  man 
who  had  saved  him — looked  into  it  and  recog 
nised  it.  That  dark  skin,  clear  though,  with  a 
transparent  pallor  to  it  like  brown  stump  water 
in  a  swamp,  and  those  black  eyes  between  the 
slitted  lids  could  belong  to  but  one  person  on 
earth.  If  the  other  had  overheard  what  just 
had  passed  between  Ginsburg  and  Dempsey  he 
gave  no  sign.  He  considered  Ginsburg  steadily, 
with  a  cool,  hostile  stare  in  his  eyes. 

"Much  obliged,  buddy,"  said  Ginsburg. 
Something  already  had  told  him  that  here 
revealed  was  a  secret  not  to  be  shared  with  a 
third  party. 

"Don't  mention  it,"  answered  his  late 
rescuer  shortly.  He  drew  a  fold  of  the  blanket 
up  across  his  face  with  the  gesture  of  one  craving 
solitude  or  sleep. 

"Huh!"  quoth  Dempsey.  "Not  what  I'd 
call  a  talkative  guy." 

This  shortcoming  could  not  be  laid  at  his  own 

door.     He  talked  steadily  on.     After  a  while, 

though,  a  reaction  of  weariness  began  to  blunt 

Dempsey 's  sprightly  vivacity.     His  talk  trailed 

"~ [294]          


JOHN      J.      COINCIDENCE 

off  into  grunts  and  he  slept  the  sleep  of  a  hurt 
tired-out  boy. 

Satisfied  that  Dempsey  no  longer  was  to  be 
considered  in  the  role  of  a  possible  eavesdropper, 
Ginsburg  nevertheless  spoke  cautiously  as  again 
he  turned  his  face  toward  the  motionless  figure 
stretched  alongside  him  on  his  left. 

"Listening?"  he  began. 

"Yes,"  gruffly. 

"When  did  you  begin  calling  yourself  Good 
man?" 

"That's  my  business." 

"No,  it's  not.  Something  has  happened 
that  gives  me  the  right  to  know.  Forget  that 
I  used  to  be  on  the  cops.  I'm  asking  you  now 
as  one  soldier  to  another :  When  did  you  begin 
calling  yourself  Goodman?" 

"About  a  year  ago — when  I  first  got  into  the 


service." 

"How  did  you  get  in?" 
"Enlisted." 

"Where?    New  York?" 
"No.     Cleveland." 


"What  made  you  enlist?" 

"Say,  wot's  this— thoid-degree  stuff?" 

"I  told  you  just  now  that  I  figured  I  had  a 
right  to  know.  When  a  man  saves  your  life  it 
puts  him  under  an  obligation  to  you — I  mean 
puts  you  under  an  obligation  to  him,"  he 
corrected. 

"Well,  if  you  put  it  that  way — maybe  it  was 
because  I  wanted  to  duck  out  of  reach  of  you 

"  [295]         "~ 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

bulls.  Maybe  because  I  wanted  to  go  straight 
a  while.  Maybe  because  I  wanted  to  show  that 
a  bad  guy  could  do  somethin'  for  his  country. 
Dope  it  out  for  yourself.  That  used  to  be  your 
game — dopin'  things  out — wasn't  it?" 

"I'm  trying  to,  now.  Tell  me,  does  any 
body  know — anybody  in  the  Army,  I  mean — 
know  who  you  are?" 

"Nobody  but  you;  and  you  might  call  it  an 
accident,  the  way  you  come  to  find  out." 

"Something  like  that.  How's  your  record 
since  you  joined  up?" 

"Clean  as  anybody's." 

"And  what's  your  idea  about  keeping  on 
going  straight  after  the  war  is  over  and  you 
get  out  of  service? 

"Don't  answer  unless  you  feel  like  it;  only 
I've  got  my  own  private  reasons  for  wanting 
to  know." 

"Well,  I  know  a  trade — learnt  it  in  stir,  but 
I  know  it.  I'm  a  steamfitter  by  trade,  only  I 
ain't  never  worked  much  at  it.  Maybe  when 
I  get  back  I'd  try  workin'  at  it  steady  if  you 
flatties  would  only  keep  off  me  back.  Any 
thing  else  you  wanted  to  find  out?"  His  tone 
was  sneering  almost.  "If  there's  not,  I  think 
I'll  try  to  take  a  nap." 

"Not  now — but  I'd  like  to  talk  to  you  again 
about  some  things  when  we're  both  rested  up." 

"Have  it  your  own  way.  I  can't  get  away 
from  you  for  a  while — not  with  this  hole  drilled 

in  me  shoulder." ___ 

[296] 


JOHN      J.      COINCIDENCE 

However,  Ginsburg  did  not  have  it  his  own 
way.  The  wound  in  his  leg  gave  threat  of 
trouble  and  at  once  he  was  shifted  south  to  one 
of  the  big  base  hospitals.  An  operation  fol 
lowed  and  after  that  a  rather  long,  slow  con 
valescence. 

In  the  same  week  of  November  that  the 
armistice  was  signed,  Ginsburg,  limping  slightly, 
went  aboard  a  troopship  bound  for  home.  It 
befell,  therefore,  that  he  spent  the  winter  on 
sick  leave  in  New  York.  He  had  plenty  of 
spare  time  on  his  hands  and  some  of  it  he 
employed  in  business  of  a  more  or  less  private 
nature.  For  example,  he  called  on  the  district 
attorney  and  a  few  days  later  went  to  Albany 
and  called  upon  the  governor.  A  returned 
soldier  whose  name  has  been  often  in  the  paper 
and  who  wears  on  his  uniform  tunic  two  bits  of 
ribbon  and  on  his  sleeves  service  and  wound 
stripes  is  not  kept  waiting  in  anterooms  these 
times.  He  saw  the  governor  just  as  he  had 
seen  the  district  attorney — promptly.  In  fact, 
the  governor  felt  it  to  be  an  honour  to  meet  a 
soldier  who  had  been  decorated  for  gallantry 
in  action  and  so  expressed  himself.  Later  he 
called  in  the  reporters  and  restated  the  fact; 
but  when  one  of  the  reporters  inquired  into  the 
reasons  for  Sergeant  Ginsburg's  visit  at  this 
time  the  governor  shook  his  head. 

"The  business  between  us  was  confidential," 
he  said  smilingly.  "But  I  might  add  that 

Sergeant  Ginsburg  got  what  he  came  for.    And 
__ 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

it  wasn't  a  job  either.  I'm  afraid,  though, 
that  you  young  gentlemen  will  have  to  wait  a 
while  for  the  rest  of  the  details.  They'll  come 
out  in  time  no  doubt.  But  just  for  the  present 
a  sort  of  surprise  is  being  planned  for  someone 
and  while  I'm  to  be  a  party  to  it  I  don't  feel  at 
liberty  to  tell  about  it— yet." 

Now  it  is  a  part  of  the  business  of  news 
paper  men  to  put  two  and  two  together  and  get 
four.  Months  later,  recalling  what  the  gov 
ernor  had  said  to  the  Albany  correspondents, 
divers  city  editors  with  the  aid  of  their  bright 
young  staff  men  did  put  two  and  two  together 
and  they  got  a  story.  It  was  a  peach  of  a  bird 
of  a  gem  of  a  story  that  they  got  on  the  day  a 
transport  nosed  up  the  harbour  bearing  what 
was  left  of  one  of  the  infantry  regiments  of  the 
praiseworthy  Metropolitan  Division. 

Even  in  those  days  of  regardless  receptions 
for  home-arriving  troops  it  did  not  often 
happen  that  a  secretary  to  the  governor  and 
an  assistant  from  the  office  of  the  district 
attorney  went  down  the  bay  on  the  same  tug  to 
meet  the  same  returning  soldier — and  he  a 
private  soldier  at  that.  Each  of  these  gentle 
men  had  put  on  his  long-tailed  coat  and  his  two- 
quart  hat  for  the  gladsome  occasion;  each  of 
them  carried  a  document  for  personal  presenta 
tion  to  this  private  soldier. 

And  the  sum  total  of  these  documents  was: 
Firstly,  to  the  full  legal  effect  that  a  certain 
~  [298] 


JOHN      J.      COINCIDENCE 

indictment  of  long  standing  was  now  by  due 
processes  of  law  forever  and  eternally  quashed; 
and  secondly,  that  the  governor  had  seen  fit  to 
remove  all  disabilities  against  a  certain  indi 
vidual,  thereby  restoring  the  person  named  to 
all  the  rights,  boons,  benefits  and  privileges  of 
citizenship;  and  thirdly,  that  in  accordance 
with  a  prior  and  privy  design,  now  fully  carried 
out,  the  recipient  of  these  documents  had  official 
guaranty,  stamped,  sealed  and  delivered,  that 
when  he  set  foot  on  the  soil  of  these  United 
States  he  would  do  so  without  cloud  upon  his 
title  as  a  sovereign  voter,  without  blemish  on 
his  name  and  without  fear  of  prosecution  in  his 
heart.  And  the  upshot  of  it  all  was  that  the 
story  was  more  than  a  peach;  it  was  a  pippin. 
The  rehabilitation  of  Private  Pasquale  Gallino, 
sometime  known  as  Stretchy  Gorman,  gangster, 
and  more  latterly  still  as  P.  Goodman,  U.  S.  A., 
A.  E.  F.,  was  celebrated  to  the  extent  of 
I  don't  know  how  many  gallons  of  printer's 
ink. 

Having  landed  in  driblets  and  having  been 
reassembled  in  camp  as  a  whole,  the  division 
presently  paraded,  which  made  another  story 
deemed  worthy  of  columns  upon  columns  in 
print.  Our  duty  here,  though,  is  not  to  under 
take  a  description  of  that  parade,  for  such  was 
competently  done  on  that  fine  day  when  the 
crowd  that  turned  out  was  the  largest  crowd 
which  that  city  of  crowds,  New  York,  had  seen 
since  the  day  when  the  crowding  Dutchmen 
[299] 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

crowded  the  Indians  off  the  shortly-to-be- 
crowded  island  of  Manhattan. 

Those  who  followed  the  daily  chronicles  of 
daily  events  saw  then,  through  the  eyes  of  gifted 
scribes,  how  Fifth  Avenue  was  turned  into  a 
four-mile  stretch  of  prancing,  dancing  glory; 
and  how  the  outpouring  millions,  in  masses 
fluid  as  water  and  in  strength  irresistible  as  a 
flood,  broke  the  police  dams  and  made  of 
roadway  and  sidewalks  one  great,  roaring, 
human  sluiceway;  and  how  the  khaki-clad 
ranks  marched  upon  a  carpet  of  the  flowers  and 
the  fruit  and  the  candy  and  the  cigarettes  and 
the  cigars  and  th  confetti  and  the  paper  rib 
bons  that  were  thrown  at  them  and  about 
them.  These  things  are  a  tale  told  and  retold. 
For  us  the  task  is  merely  to  narrate  one  small 
incident  which  occurred  in  a  side  street  hard  by 
Washington  Square  while  the  parade  was 
forming. 

Where  he  stood  marking  time  in  the  front 
row  of  the  honour  men  of  his  own  regiment — 
there  being  forty-six  of  these  honour  men,  all 
bearing  upon  their  proudly  outbulged  bosoms 
bits  of  metal  testifying  to  valorous  deeds — 
First  Sergeant  Hyman  Ginsburg,  keeping  eyes 
front  upon  the  broad  back  of  the  colonel  who 
would  ride  just  in  advance  of  the  honour  squad 
and  speaking  out  of  the  side  of  his  mouth, 
addressed  a  short,  squat,  dark  man  in  private's 
uniform  almost  directly  behind  him  at  the  end 

of  the  second  file. 

[300] 


JOHN     J.      COINCIDENCE 

"Pal,"  he  said,  casting  his  voice  over  his 
shoulder,  "did  you  happen  to  read  in  the  paper 
this  morning  that  the  police  commissioner — 
the  new  one,  the  one  that  was  appointed  while 
we  were  in  France — would  be  in  the  reviewing 
stand  to-day?" 

"No,  I  didn't  read  it;  but  wot  of  it?" 
answered  the  person  addressed. 

"Nothing,  only  it  reminded  me  of  a  promise 
I  made  you  that  night  down  at  the  Stuffed  Owl 
when  we  met  for  the  first  time  since  we  were 
kids  together.  Remember  that  promise,  don't 
you?" 

"Can't  say  I  do." 

"I  told  you  that  some  day  I'd  get  you  with 
the  goods  on  you  and  that  I'd  lead  you  in  broad 
daylight  up  the  street  to  the  big  chief.  Well, 
to-day,  kid,  I  make  good  on  that  promise. 
The  big  chief's  waiting  for  us  up  yonder  in  the 
reviewing  stand  along  with  the  governor  and 
the  mayor  and  the  rest.  And  you've  got  the 
goods  on  you — you're  wearing  them  on  your 
chest.  And  I'm  about  to  lead  you  to  him." 

Whereupon  old  Mr.  John  J.  Coincidence, 
standing  in  the  crowd,  took  out  his  fountain 
pen  and  on  his  shirt  cuff  scored  a  fresh  tally  to 
his  own  credit. 


[301] 


CHAPTER  VII 

WHEN   AUGUST   THE   SECOND   WAS 
APRIL  THE  FIRST 


HOW    Ethan    A.    Pratt,    formerly    of 
South  New  Medford,  in  the  State  of 
Vermont,  came  to  be  resident  man 
ager  and  storekeeper  for  the  British 
Great  Eastern  Company,  Ltd.,  on  Good  Friday 
Island,  in  the   South  Seas,  is  not  our  present 
concern.     Besides,   the  way   of  it   makes   too 
long  a  tale  for  telling  here.     It  is  sufficient  to 
say  he  was. 

Never  having  visited  that  wide,  long,  deep 
and  mainly  liquid  backside  of  the  planet  known 
broadly  as  the  South  Seas  but  always  intending 
to  do  so,  I  must  largely  depend  for  my  local 
colour  upon  what  Ethan  Pratt  wrote  back  home 
to  South  New  Medford;  on  that,  plus  what 
returned  travellers  to  those  parts  have  from 
time  to  time  told  me.  So  if  in  this  small 
chronicle  those  paragraphs  which  purport  to  be 
of  a  descriptive  nature  appear  incomplete  to 
readers  personally  acquainted  with  the  spots 
dealt  with  or  with  spots  like  them  the  fault,  in 
some  degree  at  least,  must  rest  upon  the  fact 
[302] 


APRIL     THE      FIRST 


that  I  have  had  my  main  dependence  in  the 
preserved  letters  of  one  who  was  by  no  means  a 
sprightly  correspondent,  but  on  the  contrary 
was  by  way  of  being  somewhat  prosy,  not  to 
say  commonplace,  on  his  literary  side. 

From  the  evidence  extant  one  gathers  that 
for  the  four  years  of  his  life  he  spent  on  Good 
Friday  Island  Ethan  Pratt  lived  in  the  rear 
room  of  a  two-room  house  of  frame  standing  on 
a  beach  with  a  little  village  about  it,  a  jungle 
behind  it,  a  river  half -mooning  it  and  a  lagoon 
before  it.  In  the  rear  room  he  bedded  and 
baited  himself.  The  more  spacious  front  room 
into  which  his  housekeeping  quarters  opened 
was  a  store  of  sorts  where  he  retailed  print 
goods  staple,  tinned  foods  assorted  and  gim- 
cracks  various  to  his  customers,  these  mostly 
being  natives.  The  building  was  crowned  with 
a  tin  roof  and  on  top  of  the  roof  there  perched  a 
round  water  tank,  like  a  high  hat  on  a  head 
much  too  large  for  it.  The  use  of  this  tank  was 
to  catch  and  store  up  rain  water,  which  ran  into 
it  from  the  sloping  top  of  a  larger  and  taller 
structure  standing  partly  alongside  and  partly 
back  of  the  lesser  structure.  The  larger  build 
ing — a  shed  it  properly  was;  a  sprawling  wide- 
eaved  barracks  of  a  shed — was  for  the  storing 
of  copra,  the  chief  article  for  export  produced 
on  Good  Friday  Island. 

Copra,  as  all  know — or  as  all  should  know, 
since  it  has  come  to  be  one  of  the  most  essential 
vegetable  products  of  the  world,  a  thing  needful 
[  303  ] 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

in  the  manufacture  of  nearly  every  commercial 
output  in  which  fatty  essences  are  required — 
is  the  dried  meat  of  the  nut  of  the  coconut  palm. 
So  rich  is  it  in  oils  that  soap  makers — to  cite  one 
of  the  industries  employing  it — scarce  could  do 
without  it;  but  like  many  of  this  earth's  most 
profitable  and  desirable  yieldings  it  has  its 
unpretty  aspects.  For  one  thing  it  stinks  most 
abominably  while  it  is  being  cured,  and  after  it 
has  been  cured  it  continues  to  stink,  with  a 
lessened  intensity.  For  another  thing,  the 
all-pervading  reek  of  the  stuff  gets  into  food 
that  is  being  prepared  anywhere  in  its  bulked 
vicinity. 

Out  in  front  of  the  establishment  over  which 
Ethan  Pratt  presided,  where  the  sandy  beach 
met  the  waters,  was  a  rickety  little  wharf  like  a 
hyphen  to  link  the  grit  with  the  salt.  Down  to 
the  outer  tip  of  the  wharf  ran  a  narrow-gauge 
track  of  rusted  iron  rails,  and  over  the  track  on 
occasion  plied  little  straddlebug  handcars. 
Because  the  water  offshore  was  shoal  ships  could 
not  come  in  very  close  but  must  lie  well  out  in 
the  lagoon  and  their  unloadings  and  their 
reloadings  were  carried  on  by  means  of  whale- 
boats  ferrying  back  and  forth  between  ship  side 
and  dock  side  with  the  push  cars  to  facilitate 
the  freight  movement  at  the  land  end  of  the 
connection.  This  was  a  laborious  and  a  vexa 
tious  proceeding,  necessitating  the  handling 
and  rehandling  of  every  bit  of  incoming  or  out 
bound  cargo  several  times.  But  then,  steamers 
[304] 


APRIL     THE      FIRST 


did  not  come  very  often  to  Good  Friday  Island; 
one  came  every  two  months  about. 

The  expanse  upon  which  Ethan  Pratt  looked 
when  he  turned  his  eyes  outward  was  of  an 
incredible  whiteness.  You  would  have  thought 
it  to  be  the  whitest,  most  blinding  thing  in  the 
world  until  you  considered  the  road  that  skirted 
it  and  some  of  the  buildings  that  bordered  it. 
For  the  road  was  built  of  crushed  coral,  so 
dazzlingly  white  that  to  look  fixedly  at  it  for 
thirty  seconds  in  bright  weather  was  to  make 
the  eyeballs  ache;  and  the  buildings  referred 
to  were  built  of  blocks  of  white  coral  like  exag 
gerated  cubes  of  refined  sugar.  These  build 
ings  were  the  chapels  and  churches — Methodist, 
Catholic,  Seventh  Day  Adventist,  English 
Wesley  an  and  American  Mormon.  When  the 
sun  shone  clear  the  water  on  beyond  became  a 
shimmering  blazing  shield  of  white-hot  metal; 
and  an  hour  of  uninterrupted  gazing  upon  it 
would  have  turned  an  argus  into  a  blinkard. 
But  other  times — early  morning  or  evening  or 
when  stormy  weather  impended — the  lagoon 
became  all  a  wonderful  deep  clear  blue,  the 
colour  of  molten  stained  glass.  One  peering 
then  into  its  depths  saw,  far  down  below,  mar 
vellous  sea  gardens  all  fronded  and  ferny  and 
waving;  and  through  the  foliage  of  this  fairy 
land  went  darting  schools  and  shoals  of  fish 
queerly  shaped  and  as  brilliantly  coloured  as 
tropical  birds. 

At  the  top  of  the  beach,  girdling  it  on  its  land 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

side,  and  stencilling  themselves  against  the  sky 
line,  ran  a  fringing  of  coconut  palms.  The 
trunks  were  naked  almost  to  the  tops,  where 
the  foliage  revealed  itself  in  flaring  clumps  of 
green.  Viewed  separately  a  tree  was  sug 
gestive  of  a  great  bird  standing  on  one  leg  with 
its  head  hidden  under  its  wing,  its  rump  up- 
reared  and  its  splayed  tail  feathers  saluting  the 
skies.  Viewed  together  they  made  a  spectacle 
for  which  nothing  in  the  temperate  zones, 
animal  or  vegetable,  offers  a  measurable  com 
parison.  When  the  wind  blew  softly  the  trees 
whispered  among  themselves.  When  the  wind 
blew  hard  and  furiously,  as  often  it  did,  or 
when  the  trade  breeze  swelled  to  hurricane 
speed,  the  coconuts  in  their  long  bearded  husks 
would  be  wrenched  free  and  would  come  hurt 
ling  through  the  air  like  fletched  cannon  balls. 
When  one  of  them  struck  a  tin  roof  there 
resulted  a  terrific  crashing  sound  fit  to  wake  the 
dead  and  to  stun  the  living. 

Living  there  Pratt's  diet  was  mainly  tinned 
salmon,  which  tasted  faintly  of  tin  and  strongly 
of  copra;  and  along  with  the  salmon,  crackers, 
which  in  this  climate  were  almost  always 
flabby  with  dampness  and  often  were  afflicted 
with  greenish  mould.  Salmon  and  crackers  had 
come  to  be  his  most  dependable  stand-bys  in 
the  matter  of  provender.  True  the  natives 
brought  him  gifts  of  food  dishes;  dishes  cooked 
without  salt  and  pleasing  to  the  Polynesian 
palate.  Coming  out  upon  his  balcony  of  a 
[306] 


APRIL     THE      FIRST 


morning  he  would  find  swinging  from  a  cross 
beam  a  basket  made  of  the  green  palm  leaves 
and  containing  a  chicken  or  a  fish  prepared 
according  to  the  primitive  native  recipe,  or  per 
haps  a  mess  of  wild  greens  baked  on  hot  stones; 
or  maybe  baked  green  bananas  or  taro  or  yams 
or  hard  crusty  halves  of  baked  breadfruit. 

To  the  white  man  yams  and  taro  taste 
mighty  good  at  first,  but  eventually  he  sickens 
of  them.  Pratt  sickened  sooner  than  some 
white  men  had;  and  almost  from  the  first  the 
mere  sight  and  savour  of  a  soft-fleshed  baked 
fish  had  made  his  gorge  rise  in  revolt.  So  he 
fell  back  upon  staples  of  his  own  land  and  ate 
salmon  and  crackers. 

This  island  where  he  lived  was  an  island  of 
smells  and  insects.  Consider  first  the  matter  of 
the  prevalent  smells :  When  the  copra  was  curing 
and  the  village  green  was  studded  with  thou 
sands  of  little  cusps,  each  being  brown  without 
and  milk-white  within,  and  each  destined  to 
remain  there  until  the  heat  had  dried  the  nut 
meats  to  the  proper  brownish  tone,  there  rose 
and  spread  upon  the  air  a  stench  so  thick  and 
so  heavy  as  to  be  almost  visible;  a  rancid,  hot, 
rottenish  stench.  Then,  when  the  wind  blew 
off  the  seas  it  frequently  brought  with  it  the 
taint  of  rotted  fish.  Sniffing  this  smell  Ethan 
Pratt  would  pray  for  a  land  breeze;  but  since  he 
hated  perfumed  smells  almost  as  intensely  as 
he  hated  putrescent  ones,  a  land  breeze  was 
no  treat  to  his  nose  either,  for  it  came  freighted 

'""" [  307  ] 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

with  the  sickish  odour  of  the  f  rangipane  and  of  a 
plant  the  islanders  call  mosooi,  overpowering 
in  their  combined  sweetness. 

In  his  letters  he  complained  much  of  these 
smells  and  likewise  much  of  the  heat,  but  more 
than  of  either  he  complained  of  the  insects. 
It  would  appear  that  the  mosquitoes  worked 
on  him  in  shifts.  By  day  there  came  day  mos 
quitoes,  creatures  of  the  sunlight  and  matching 
it  in  a  way,  seeing  that  they  were  big  grey- 
striped  fellows  with  keen  and  strident  voices. 
By  night  there  were  small  vicious  mosquitoes, 
in  colour  an  appropriate  black  and  in  habit  more 
bloodthirsty  than  Uhlans.  After  dark  the 
flame  of  his  kerosene  lamp  was  to  them  as  the 
traditional  light  in  the  traditional  casement  is 
to  returning  wanderers.  It  brought  them  in 
millions,  and  with  them  tiny  persistent  gnats 
and  many  small  coffin-shaped  beetles  and  hosts 
of  pulpy,  unwholesome-looking  moths  of  many 
sizes  and  as  many  colours.  Screens  and  double 
screens  at  the  window  openings  did  not  avail  to 
keep  these  visitors  out.  Somehow  they  found 
a  way  in.  The  mosquitoes  and  the  gnats 
preyed  upon  him;  the  beetles  and  the  moths 
were  lured  by  the  flame  to  a  violent  end.  To 
save  the  wick  from  being  clogged  by  their 
burnt  bodies  he  hooded  the  top  of  the  lamp 
with  netting.  This  caused  the  lamp  chimney 
to  smoke  and  foul  itself  with  soot.  To  save  his 
shins  from  attack  he  wrapped  his  legs  in  news- 
paper  buskins.  For  his  hands  and  his  face  and 
"  [308] 


APRIL     THE      FIRST 


his  neck  and  his  ears  he  could  devise  no  pro 
tection. 

To  be  encountered  just  outside  the  door  were 
huge  flying  cockroaches  that  clung  in  his  hair  or 
buffeted  him  in  the  face  as  they  blundered  along 
on  purposeless  flights.  Still  other  insects,  un 
seen  but  none  the  less  busy,  added  to  the  bur 
den  of  his  jeremiad.  Borers  riddled  the  pages  of 
his  books;  and  the  white  ant,  as  greedy  for 
wood  pulp  as  a  paper  baron,  was  constantly 
sapping  and  mining  the  underpinnings  of  his 
house. 

Touching  on  the  climate  his  tone  was  most 
rebellious.  By  all  accounts  the  weather  was 
rarely  what  one  born  in  Vermont  would  regard 
as  seasonable  weather.  According  to  him  its 
outstanding  characteristics  were  heat,  moist- 
ness  and  stickiness.  If  he  took  a  nap  in  the 
afternoon  he  rose  from  it  as  from  a  Turkish 
bath.  His  hair  was  plastered  to  his  head  all 
day  with  dampness;  his  forehead  and  his  face 
ran  sweat;  his  wrists  were  as  though  they  had 
been  parboiled  and  freshly  withdrawn  from 
the  water.  Perspiration  glued  his  garments  to 
his  frame.  His  shoes  behind  the  door  turned  a 
leprous  white  from  mildew  and  rotted  to  pieces 
while  yet  they  were  new. 

The  forest,  into  which  he  sometimes  ven 
tured,  was  a  place  of  dampness,  deepness  and 
smells;  a  place  of  great  trees,  fat  fungoids, 
sprawling  creepers,  preposterous  looking  para- 
sites,  orchids,  lianas;  a  place  of  things  that 
~ ~"  [  309  ]  " ~~~ '  "~ 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

crawled  and  climbed  and  twined  and  clung.  It 
was  filled  with  weird  sounds — the  booming  of 
wild  pigeons;  a  nagging,  tapping  sound  as 
though  woodchoppers  were  at  work  far  off  in 
its  depths;  and  a  constant  insane  chattering 
sound,  as  though  mad  children,  hidden  all  about 
him,  were  laughing  at  him.  Dusk  brought 
from  their  coverts  the  flying  foxes,  to  utter 
curious  notes  as  they  sailed  through  the  gloam 
ing,  and  occasionally  sharp  squeaks  as  of  mortal 
agony  or  intense  gratification — he  couldn't 
make  up  his  mind  which.  After  nightfall  if  he 
flung  a  burning  cigar  stump  out  upon  the  sand 
he  could  see  it  moving  off  in  the  darkness 
apparently  under  its  own  motive  power.  But 
the  truth  was  that  a  land  crab,  with  an  unsolv- 
able  mania  for  playing  the  role  of  torchbearer, 
would  be  scuttling  away  with  the  stub  in  one  of 
its  claws. 

The  forest  sheltered  no  dangerous  beasts  and 
no  venomous  reptiles  but  in  it  were  stinging 
nettles  the  touch  of  which  was  like  fire  to  a 
sensitive  white  skin.  Also,  the  waters  of  the 
lagoon  were  free  from  man-eaters,  but  wading 
close  to  shore  one  was  almost  sure  to  bark  one's 
shanks  on  the  poisoned  coral,  making  sores 
that  refused  to  heal.  Against  the  river,  which 
flowed  down  out  of  the  interior  to  the  sea,  Pratt 
likewise  bore  a  grudge,  because  it  was  in  the 
river  that  a  brown  woman  washed  his  clothes 
on  the  stones,  returning  them  with  the  buttons 
pounded  off;  but  for  every  missing  button  there 
[310] 


APRIL      THE      FIRST 


was  sure  to  be  a  bright  yellow,  semi-indelible 
stain,  where  the  laundress  had  spread  the 
garments  to  dry  upon  a  wild  berry  bush. 

Every  two  months  the  steamer  came.  Then 
the  white  population  of  the  station  doubled  and 
trebled  itself.  Traders  and  storekeepers  came 
by  canoe  from  outlying  islands  or  from  remote 
stations  on  the  farther  side  of  his  own  island, 
for  Good  Friday  Island  had  but  one  port  of 
entry  and  this  was  it.  Beachcombers  who  had 
been  adopted  into  villages  in  the  interior  saun 
tered  in  over  jungle  trails.  Many  of  them  were 
deserters  from  whalers  or  from  naval  vessels; 
nearly  all  were  handsome  chaps  in  an  animal 
sort  of  way. 

For  this  common  sharing  of  a  common  come 
liness  among  them  there  was  a  reason.  In  a 
land  where  physical  perfection  literally  is 
worshipped,  good-looking  men,  brawny  and 
broad,  are  surest  of  winning  an  asylum  and 
wives  and  tribal  equality.  To  Pratt  it  seems 
to  have  been  a  source  of  wonderment  that 
almost  without  exception  they  were  blue-eyed 
and  light-haired;  he  could  understand  of  course 
why  their  skins,  once  fair  and  white,  had 
changed  to  the  colour  of  well-tanned  calfskin. 
The  sun  beating  upon  their  naked  bodies  had 
done  that. 

There  also  would  be  present  a  party  of  over 
seers  and  managers  from  a  big  German  planta 
tion  on  an  adjacent  island.  The  traders  and 
the  Germans  would  appear  in  white  ducks  with 

[311]        


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

white  shoes  smartly  pipe-clayed,  and  white 
straw  hats.  The  beachcombers  would  be  in 
clean  pyjama  suits  with  bright-coloured  neckties. 
Ordinarily  these  latter  went  about  bare-headed, 
bare-legged  and  bare-bodied  except  for  the  lava- 
lava  made  of  fibre  from  the  paper  mulberry 
tree  and  worn  like  a  kilt  about  the  Jiips;  but 
now,  in  white  men's  garments,  they  sought  to 
prove  that  they  still  were  white  men  and  civi 
lised  white  men  too.  If  the  steamer  were  late, 
as  very  often  happened,  some  of  the  visitors 
would  take  advantage  of  the  wait  to  make 
themselves  roaring  drunk  on  gin. 

So  much  briefly,  for  the  stage  setting  of 
Ethan  Pratt's  environment;  now  for  the  per 
sonality  of  the  man:  Of  all  the  breeds  and  the 
mixed  breeds  that  have  gravitated  out  of  white 
lands  into  these  sea  islands  of  darker-skinned 
peoples,  there  surely  was  never  a  more  in 
congruous,  more  alien  figure  than  this  man  pre 
sented.  For  you  should  know  that  in  all  things 
he  was  most  typical  of  what  is  most  typical  in  a 
certain  cross-section  of  New  England  life — not 
the  coastwise  New  England  of  a  seafaring, 
far-ranging,  adventurous  race,  but  the  New 
England  of  long-settled  remote  interior  districts. 
He  came  of  a  farming  stock  and  a  storekeeping 
stock,  bred  out  of  the  loins  of  forbears  made 
hard  by  the  task  of  chiselling  a  livelihood  off 
of  flinty  hillsides,  made  narrow  by  the  pent-up 
communal  system  of  isolated  life,  made  honest 
and  truthful  by  the  influences  behind  them  and 

[812] 


APRIL     THE      FIRST 


the  examples  before  them  of  generations  of 
straight- walking,  strait-laced,  God-dreading 
folk. 

That  form  of  moral  dyspepsia  known  as  the 
Puritanical  conscience  was  his  by  right  of 
inheritance.  In  his  nature  there  was  no  flexi 
bility,  no  instinct  for  harmonious  adaptability 
to  any  surroundings  excepting  those  among 
which  he  had  been  born  and  in  which  he  in 
tended  to  end  his  days.  Temperamentally  he 
was  of  a  fast  colour.  The  leopard  cannot 
change  the  spots  and  neither  could  he  change 
his;  nor  did  he  will  so  to  do.  In  short  he  was 
what  he  was,  just  as  God  and  prenatal  reactions 
had  fashioned  him,  and  so  he  would  remain  to 
the  end  of  the  chapter. 

For  all  the  four  years  he  had  spent  out  there 
the  lure  of  the  South  Seas — about  which  so 
much  has  been  written  that  it  must  be  a  verity 
and  not  a  popular  myth — had  never  laid  hold 
upon  him.  Its  gorgeous  physical  beauty,  its 
languor,  its  voluptuous  colour  and  abandon,  its 
prodigally  glorious  dawns  and  its  velvety 
nights — held  for  him  no  value  to  be  reckoned 
as  an  offset  against  climatic  discomforts;  it  left 
him  untouched.  In  it  he  never  saw  the  wonder 
land  that  Stevenson  made  so  vivid  to  stay-at- 
homes,  nor  felt  for  one  instant  the  thrill  that 
inspired  Jack  London  to  fine  rhapsodising.  In 
it  he  saw  and  he  felt  only  the  sense  of  an  ever 
lasting  struggle  against  foreign  elements  and 

hostile  forces. 

_„_._ __ 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

Among  the  missionaries  he  had  acquaintances 
but  no  friends.  He  despised  the  swaggering 
beachcombers  who  had  flung  off  the  decencies 
of  civilisation  along  with  the  habiliments  of 
civilisation  and  who  found  a  marrowy  sweet 
ness  in  the  husks  of  the  prodigal.  Even  more 
he  despised  the  hectoring  Germans  with  their 
flaming  red  and  yellow  beards,  their  thick- 
lensed  spectacles,  their  gross  manners  when 
among  their  own  kind  and  their  brutishness 
in  all  their  dealings  with  the  natives — a  brutish- 
ness  so  universal  among  them  that  no  Poly 
nesian  would  work  at  any  price  for  a  German, 
and  every  German  had  to  depend  for  his  plan 
tation  labour  upon  imported  black  boys  from 
the  Solomons  and  from  New  Guinea,  who 
having  once  been  trapped  or,  to  use  the  trade 
word,  indented,  were  thereafter  held  in  an 
enforced  servitude  and  paid  with  the  bond 
man's  wage  of  bitter  bread  and  bloody  stripes. 

He  had  never  been  able  to  get  under  the  skin 
of  a  native;  indeed  he  had  never  tried.  In  all 
the  things  that  go  to  make  up  an  understanding 
of  a  fellow  mortal's  real  nature  they  still  were 
to  him  as  completely  strangers  as  they  had 
been  on  the  day  he  landed  in  this  place.  Set 
down  in  the  midst  of  a  teeming  fecundity  he 
nevertheless  remained  as  truly  a  castaway  as 
though  he  had  floated  ashore  on  a  bit  of  wreck 
age.  He  could  have  been  no  more  and  no  less 
a  maroon  had  the  island  which  received  him 
been  a  desert  island  instead  of  a  populous  one. 


APRIL     THE      FIRST 


When  a  chief  paid  him  a  formal  visit,  bringing 
a  gift  of  taro  root  and  sitting  for  hours  upon 
his  veranda,  the  grave  courtesy  of  the  ceremony, 
in  which  a  white  man  differently  constituted 
might  have  taken  joy,  merely  bored  him  un 
utterably.  As  for  the  native  women,  they  had 
as  little  of  sex  appeal  for  him  as  he  had  for 
them — which  was  saying  a  good  deal  now, 
because  he  was  short  and  of  a  meagre  shape, 
and  the  scorn  of  the  Polynesian  girl  for  a  little 
man  is  measureless.  The  girls  of  Good  Friday 
Island  called  him  by  a  name  which  sounded 
like  "Pooh-pooh." 

Among  an  English-speaking  people  it  would 
have  been  a  hard-enough  lot  to  be  pooh-poohed 
through  life  by  every  personable  female  one 
met.  Here  the  coupled  syllables  carried  an 
added  sting  of  con  temp  tuousness.  In  the 
language  of  the  country  they  meant  runty, 
mean-figured,  undersized.  A  graceful  girl,  her 
naked  limbs  glistening  with  coconut  oil,  a 
necklet  of  flowers  about  her  throat  and  a 
hibiscus  bloom  pasted  to  her  cheek  like  a  beauty 
spot,  meeting  him  in  the  road  would  give  him  a 
derisive  smile  over  her  shoulder  and  with  the 
unconscious  cruelty  of  primitive  folk  would 
softly  puff  out  "Pooh-pooh"  through  her  pursed 
lips  as  she  passed  him  by.  And  it  hurt.  Cer 
tain  of  the  white  residents  called  him  Pooh-pooh 
too,  which  hurt  more  deeply. 

How  he  hated  the  whole  thing — the  dampness 
which  mildewed  his  shoes  and  rusted  out  his 
~ [315] 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

nettings;  the  day  heat  which  kept  him  bathed 
in  clamminess;  the  pestiferous  insects;  the 
forest  with  its  voices  like  sobbings  and  hammer 
ings  and  demoniac  chatterings;  the  food  he  had 
to  eat;  the  company  he  had  to  keep;  the  chiefs 
who  bored  him;  the  girls  who  derided  him;  the 
beachcombers  who  nauseated  him;  the  white 
sands,  the  blue  waters,  the  smells,  the  sounds, 
the  routine  of  existence  with  one  day  precisely 
like  another — the  whole  thing  of  it.  We  may 
picture  him  as  a  humid  duck-legged  little  man, 
most  terribly  homesick,  most  tremendously 
lonely,  most  distressingly  alien.  We  may  go 
further  and  picture  him  as  a  sort  of  combina 
tion  of  Job  with  his  afflictions,  Robinson  Crusoe 
with  no  man  Friday  to  cheer  him  in  his  solitude, 
and  Peter  the  Hermit  with  no  dream  of  a 
crusade  to  uplift  him.  In  these  four  years  his 
hair  had  turned  almost  white,  yet  he  was  still 
under  forty. 

To  all  about  him,  white  people  and  brown 
people  alike,  the  coming  of  the  steamer  was  an 
event  of  supremest  importance.  For  the 
islanders  it  meant  a  short  season  of  excitement, 
most  agreeable  to  their  natures.  For  the  whites 
it  meant  a  fleeting  but  none  the  less  delectable 
contact  with  the  world  outside,  with  lands 
beyond,  upon  which  all  of  them,  for  this  reason 
or  that,  had  turned  their  backs,  and  to  which 
some  of  them  dared  never  return. 

In  his  case  the  world  did  not  mean  the  world 
at  large  but  merely  the  small  circumscribed 


APRIL     THE      FIRST 


world  of  South  New  Medford,  which  was  his 
world.  To  him  South  New  Medford  compre 
hended  and  summed  up  all  that  was  really 
worth  while.  He  welcomed  the  steamer  not 
because  it  brought  news  of  wars  and  rumours 
of  wars  nor  tales  of  great  events  on  this  con 
tinent  or  in  that  archipelago,  but  because  it 
brought  to  him  a  sheaf  of  letters,  all  addressed 
in  the  same  prim  handwriting  and  bearing  the 
same  postmark;  and  a  sheaf  of  copies  of  the 
South  New  Medford  Daily  Republican.  The 
letters  he  read  at  once  greedily,  but  with  the 
newspapers  he  had  a  different  way.  He 
shucked  them  out  of  their  wrappers,  arranged 
them  in  proper  chronological  order  with  those 
bearing  the  later  dates  at  the  bottom  and  those 
bearing  the  older  dates  upon  the  top  of  the 
heap,  then  stacked  them  on  a  shelf  in  his  living 
room.  And  each  morning  he  read  a  paper. 

In  the  beginning  of  his  sojourn  on  Good 
Friday  Island  he  had  made  a  grievous  mistake. 
Following  the  arrival  of  the  first  steamer  after 
he  took  over  his  duties  as  resident  manager  for 
the  British  Great  Eastern  he  had  indulged  him 
self  in  a  perfect  orgy  of  reading.  He  had  read 
all  his  Daily  Republicans  in  two  days'  time, 
gorging  himself  on  home  news,  on  mention  of 
familiar  names  and  on  visions  of  familiar 
scenes.  Then  had  ensued  sixty -odd  days  of 
emptiness  until  the  steamer  brought  another 
batch  of  papers  to  him. 

From  that  time  on  he  read  one  paper  a  day 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

and  one  only.  Reading  it  he  lived  the  life  of 
the  town  and  became  one  of  its  citizens;  a 
sharer  at  long  distance  in  its  joys,  its  sorrows 
and  its  small  thrills.  But  never  now  did  he 
read  more  than  one  paper  in  a  single  day;  the 
lesson  of  those  two  months  had  sunk  in.  No 
temptation,  howsoever  strong — the  desire  to 
know  hew  the  divorce  trial  of  the  H.  K.  Pea- 
bodys  turned  out,  the  itch  of  yearning  to  learn 
whether  the  body  of  the  man  found  drowned  in 
Exeter  Pond  was  identified — proved  potent 
enough  to  pull  him  away  from  his  rule.  That 
the  news  he  read  was  anywhere  from  ten  weeks 
to  four  months  old  when  it  reached  him  did  not 
matter;  in  fact  he  very  soon  forgot  that  such 
was  the  case.  For  two  precious  hours  a  day 
he  was  translated  back  to  the  day  and  date 
that  the  rumpled  sheet  in  his  hands  carried  on 
its  first  page.  Afterward  he  reverted  quite 
naturally  and  without  conscious  jar  to  the 
proper  time  of  the  year  as  advertised  by  the 
calendar. 

His  routine  would  be  like  this:  He  would 
rise  early,  before  the  heat  of  the  day  was  upon 
Good  Friday  Island  to  make  it  steam  and 
sweat  and  give  off  smells.  He  would  shave 
himself  and  bathe  and  put  on  clean  loose  gar 
ments,  all  white  except  where  the  stains  of  the 
wild,  yellow  berries  had  blotched  them.  His 
breakfast  he  prepared  himself,  afterward  wash 
ing  the  dishes.  Then  he  would  light  his  pipe 
or  his  cigar  and  take  from  the  shelf  the  upper- 
_  [818]  


APRIL     THE      FIRST 


most  copy  of  the  pile  of  Daily  Republicans 
there.  With  the  love  for  tidiness  and  kempt- 
ness  that  was  a  part  of  him  he  would  smooth 
out  its  creases,  then  sit  down  on  his  veranda  to 
read  it.  Immediately  he  became  detached 
from  all  his  surroundings.  By  his  concentra 
tion  he  was  isolated  from  and  insulated  against 
all  external  influences.  He  was  not  in  Good 
Friday  Island  then;  he  was  in  South  New 
Medford. 

Each  morning  he  read  his  paper  through 
from  the  top  line  of  the  first  column  of  the  first 
page  to  the  bottom  line  of  the  last  column  of 
the  fourth,  or  last,  page.  He  read  it  all — 
news  matter,  local  items,  clippings,  advertise 
ments,  want  notices,  church  notices,  lodge 
notices,  patent  insides  of  boiler  plate,  fashion 
department,  household  hints,  farm  hints,  re 
print,  Births,  Weddings  and  Deaths;  syndi 
cate  stuff,  rural  correspondence — no  line  of  its 
contents  did  he  skip.  With  his  eyes  shut  he 
could  put  his  finger  upon  those  advertisements 
which  ran  without  change  and  occupied  set 
places  on  this  page  or  that;  such,  for  instance, 
as  the  two-column  display  of  J.  Wesley  Paxon, 
Livery  Barn,  Horses  Kept  and  Baited,  Vehicles 
at  all  hours,  Funeral  Attendance  a  Specialty; 
and  the  two-inch  notice  of  the  American  Pan- 
torium  and  Pressing  Club,  Membership  $1.00 
per  Month,  Garments  Called  For  and  Deliv 
ered,  Phone  No.  41,  M.  Pincus,  Prop.  He 

was  like  a  miser  with  a  loaf;  no  crumb,  however 

_ 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

tiny,  got  away  from  him.  To  him  there  was 
more  of  absorbing  interest  in  the  appearance 
of  the  seventeen-year  locust  in  Chittenden 
County  than  in  a  Balkan  outbreak;  less  of 
interest  in  the  failing  state  of  health  of  the 
Czar  than  in  the  prospects  for  the  hay  crop  in 
the  Otter  Creek  valley. 

When  he  had  read  on  through  to  the  last 
ink-smudged  line  he  would  reread  the  accounts 
of  those  matters  which  particularly  attracted 
him  on  their  first  reading.  Then  reluctantly 
and  still  in  his  state  of  absorption,  he  would 
put  the  paper  aside  and  going  inside  to  a  small 
desk  would  write  his  daily  chapter  in  a  bulky 
letter,  the  whole  to  be  posted  on  the  next 
steamer  day.  It  was  characteristic  of  the  man 
that  in  his  letter  writing  he  customarily  dealt  in 
comment  upon  the  minor  affairs  of  South  New 
Medford  as  they  had  passed  in  review  before 
him  in  the  printed  columns,  rather  than  in 
observations  regarding  witnessed  occurrences 
in  Good  Friday  Island.  This  writing  stunt 
done,  his  day  was  done.  The  rest  was  dulness. 
Unutterable,  grinding  dulness — the  monotony 
of  dealing  out  wares  to  customers,  of  keeping 
his  accounts,  of  posting  his  records  to  date,  of 
performing  his  domestic  chores. 

From  this  dulness,  though,  the  re  was  some 
times  an  escape.  To  relieve  the  monotony  of 
his  cheerless  grind  of  duties  and  obligations 
there  came  to  him  visions.  And  these  visions, 
we  may  be  very  sure,  mainly  were  induced  by 
[  320] 


APRIL     THE      FIRST 


what  he  had  that  day  read  and  that  day  written. 
By  virtue  of  a  special  con  jury  residing  in  these 
waking  dreams  of  his,  the  little  man  peering 
nearsightedly  at  the  shimmering  white  beach 
saw  instead  of  a  beach  the  first  heavy  fall  of 
snow  upon  the  withers  of  the  Green  Mountains; 
saw  not  unchanging  stretches  of  sand  but  a 
blanket  of  purest  fleece,  frilled  and  flounced 
and  scrolled  after  the  drift  wind  had  billowed 
it  up  in  low  places  but  otherwise  smooth  and 
fair  except  where  it  had  been  rutted  by  sleigh 
runners  and  packed  by  the  snow-boltered  hoofs 
of  bay  Dobbins  and  sorrel  Dollies,  the  get  of 
Morgan  stock. 

In  the  insane  forest  voices  he  heard  the  con 
tented  cacklings  of  fat  hens  scratching  for 
provender  beneath  the  gnarled  limbs  of  ancient 
apple  trees  whose  trunks  all  were  so  neatly 
whitewashed  up  to  the  lowermost  boughs. 
Looking  upon  the  settlement  where  he  lived, 
set  as  it  was  like  a  white-and-green  jewel  in  a 
ring  of  lush  barbaric  beauty,  his  fancy  showed 
him  the  vista  of  a  spinsterish-looking  Main 
Street  lined  by  dooryards  having  fences  of 
pointed  painted  pickets,  and  behind  the  pickets, 
peonies  and  hollyhocks  encroaching  upon  prim 
flagged  walks  which  led  back  to  the  white- 
panelled  doors  of  small  houses  buried  almost  to 
their  eaves  in  lilac  bushes  and  golden  glow. 

The  magic  of  it  made  all  things  to  match  in 
with  the  image:  Thus,  for  example,  the  tall 
palms  with  their  feather-duster  tops,  bending 

"        ""  [821] 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

seaward,  turned  into  broad  elms  standing  in 
regular  double  rank,  like  Yankee  militiamen  on 
a  muster  day.  And  night  times,  when  through 
his  windows  there  came  floating  in  the  soft 
vowelsome  voices  of  native  fishermen  paddling 
their  canoes  upon  the  lagoon  and  singing  as 
they  paddled,  he  felt  himself  translated  many 
thousands  of  miles  away  to  Wednesday  evening 
prayer  meeting  in  a  squat,  brick  church  with  a 
wooden  belfry  rearing  above  its  steep  slated 
roof. 

But  in  this  last  conjuring-up  of  a  beloved 
scene  there  lay  at  the  back  of  the  trick  more  of 
reminiscence  than  imagination,  since  the  airs 
the  fishermen  chanted  were  based,  nearly  all, 
upon  Christian  songs  that  the  earlier  mission 
aries  had  brought  hither;  the  words  might  be 
Polynesian  but  the  cadence  that  carried  the 
words  was  likely  to  be  the  cadence  of  some 
pioneer  hymnster. 

And  ever  and  always  the  vision  had  a  certain 
delectable  climax;  a  definite  consummation 
most  devoutly  wished  for.  For  its  final  upshot 
would  be  that  Ethan  Pratt  would  behold  him 
self  growing  old  in  the  peaceful  safe  harbour  of 
South  New  Medford,  anchored  fast  by  his 
heartstrings  to  a  small  white  cottage,  all  fur 
bished  and  plenished  within,  all  flowers  and 
shrubs  roundabout,  with  a  kitchen  garden  at 
its  back,  and  on  beyond  an  orchard  of  white 
washed  trees  where  buff  cochins  clucked  beneath 
the  ripening  fruit,  and  on  beyond  this  in  turn  'a 


APRIL     THE      FIRST 


hay  meadow  stretching  away  toward  rising 
foothills. 

He  saw  himself  working  in  the  flowers  and 
tilling  the  vegetable  garden.  He  watched  him 
self  quitting  this  haven  to  walk  a  sedate  way  to 
worship  of  a  Sunday  morning.  With  his  mind's 
eye  he  followed  his  own  course  in  a  buggy  along 
a  country  road  in  the  fall  of  the  year  when  the 
maples  had  turned  and  the  goldenrod  spread 
its  carpet  of  tawny  glory  across  the  fields. 
And  invariably  his  companion  in  these  simple 
homely  comfortable  employments  was  a  little 
woman  who  wore  gold-rimmed  glasses  and 
starchy  print  frocks. 

Into  the  picture  no  third  figure  ever  obtruded. 
With  her  alone  he  conceived  of  himself  as  walk 
ing  side  by  side  through  all  the  remaining  days 
of  his  life.  For  this  mousy  methodical  little 
man  had  his  great  romance.  Unsuspected 
and  undetected,  inside  the  commonplace  cover 
of  his  body  it  burned  with  a  clear  and  a  steady 
flame.  It  had  burned  there,  never  flickering, 
never  wavering,  through  all  the  days  of  his 
faring  into  far  and  foreign  parts.  Since  child 
hood  the  two  of  them  had  been  engaged.  It 
was  she  who  wrote  him  the  letters  that  came,  a 
fat  sheaf  of  them,  by  every  steamer;  it  was  to 
her  that  he  wrote  in  reply.  It  was  for  the  sake 
of  her  and  in  the  intention  of  making  a  home  for 
her  that  through  four  years  he  had  endured  this 
imprisonment  or  this  martyrdom  or  this  what- 
ever  you  may  be  pleased  to  call  it,  away  off 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

here  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  world  from  her. 
She  was  saving  and  he  was  saving,  both  for  a 
common  purpose.  Back  there  at  home  it  cost 
her  little  to  live,  and  out  here  it  cost  him  less. 
In  fact,  it  cost  him  almost  nothing.  Ninety  per 
cent  of  his  pay  went  into  his  share  of  the  pool. 

Within  another  year  the  requisite  sum  which 
this  pair  of  canny  prudent  souls  had  set  as  their 
modest  goal  would  be  reached;  and  then  he 
could  bid  an  everlasting  farewell  to  these  hated 
islands  and  go  sailing  home — home  to  South 
New  Medford  and  to  Miss  Hetty  Stowe.  And 
then  she  would  surrender  the  place  she  had  held 
for  so  long  as  the  teacher  of  District  School  Num 
ber  Four,  to  become  Mrs.  Ethan  Allen  Pratt, 
a  wife  honoured,  a  helpmate  well-beloved. 

So  to  him  the  coming  of  the  steamer  meant 
more  than  an  orgy  of  drunken  beachcombers 
and  a  bustle  of  life  and  activity  upon  the  beach ; 
it  meant  more  than  a  thin-strained  taste  of 
contact  with  a  distant  world  of  white  men  and 
white  men's  ways;  meant  more,  even,  than 
letters  and  papers.  To  him  it  was  a  renewal  of 
the  nearing  prospect  of  an  eternal  departure  out 
of  these  lands.  By  the  steamer's  movements 
he  marked  off  into  spaced  intervals  the  remain 
ing  period  of  his  exile,  he  thought  of  the  passage 
of  time  not  in  terms  of  days  or  weeks  but  in 
terms  of  two-month  stretches.  Six  visits  more 
of  the  ship,  or  possibly  seven,  and  this  drear  life 
would  come  to  an  end  and  another  life,  the  one 
of  his  hopes  and  plans,  would  begin. 


APRIL     THE      FIRST 


For  its  next  time  of  coming  the  boat  was  due 
on  or  about  August  the  first.  She  failed  to 
come  on  the  first,  but  on  the  second,  early  in 
the  morning,  she  came  nosing  into  the  lagoon. 
In  a  canoe  with  a  brown  man  to  paddle  him 
Pratt  put  off  for  her.  He  was  alongside  by  the 
time  her  anchor  chains  had  rattled  out,  and  the 
skipper  with  his  own  hands  passed  down  to 
him  a  mail  bag.  He  brought  it  ashore  and 
from  it  took  out  his  packet  of  letters  and  his 
sheaf  of  Daily  Republicans.  These  he  carried 
to  his  quarters. 

First  he  read  the  letters,  finding  them  many 
fewer  in  number  than  was  usual.  By  his  pri 
vate  system  of  chronological  accounting  there 
should  have  been  one  letter  for  every  day  from 
the  eighteenth  of  March  well  on  into  May. 
But  here  were  but  a  scant  dozen  instead  of  the 
expected  fifty-odd.  On  the  other  hand  there 
seemed  to  be  a  fairly  complete  file  of  the  papers, 
except  that  about  ten  or  twelve  of  the  earlier- 
dated  numbers  were  missing.  By  some  freak- 
ishness  in  the  handling  of  the  post  at  this  port 
or  that  a  batch  of  the  older  papers  and  a  larger 
batch  of  the  newer  letters  had  failed  of  ultimate 
delivery  to  the  steamer;  so  he  figured  it.  This 
thing  had  happened  before,  causing  a  vexatious 
break  in  his  routine.  Plainly  it  had  happened 
again.  Well,  away  out  here  off  the  beat  of 
travel  such  upsettings  must  be  endured. 

He  arranged  the  papers  upon  their  proper 
shelf  and  in  their  proper  order;  then,  as  was  his 
~ [325] 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

wont,  he  turned  to  the  letters  and  read  them  one 
by  one.  To  another  they  might  have  seemed 
stiff  and  precise  in  their  language;  almost  for 
mal,  faintly  breathing  as  they  did  the  restrained 
affections  of  a  woman  no  longer  young  and 
coming  of  a  breed  of  women  who  almost  from 
the  cradle  are  by  precept  and  example  taught 
how  to  cloak  the  deeper  and  the  more  constant 
emotions  beneath  the  ice  skim  of  a  ladylike 
reserve.  But  they  satisfied  their  reader;  they 
were  as  they  always  had  been  and  as  they 
always  would  be.  His  only  complaint,  men 
tally  registered,  was  that  the  last  one  should 
bear  the  date  of  March  twenty-ninth. 

Having  read  them  all  he  filed  them  away 
in  a  safe  place,  then  brought  the  topmost  copy 
of  his  just-received  file  of  newspapers  out 
upon  the  veranda  and  sat  himself  down  to 
read  it. 

The  first  column  always  contained  local 
news.  He  read  of  the  wand  drill  given  by  the 
graduating  class  of  the  South  New  Medford 
Girls'  High  School;  of  a  demonstration  of 
Wheat-Sweet  Breakfast  Food  in  the  show 
window  of  Cody's  drug  store;  of  a  fire  from 
unknown  causes  in  Lawyer  Horace  Bartlett's 
offices  upstairs  over  G.  A.  R.  Hall,  damage 
eighty  dollars;  of  the  death  of  Aunt  Priscilla 
Lyon,  aged  ninety-two;  of  a  bouncing,  ten- 
pound  boy  born  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Arthur  Purdy, 
mother  and  child  doing  well — all  names  familiar 
to  him.  He  came  to  the  department  devoted 


APRIL      THE      FIRST 


to  weddings.  There  was  but  one  notice  beneath 
the  single-line  head;  it  made  a  single  paragraph. 

He  read  it  and  as  he  read  the  words  of  it 
burned  into  his  brain  like  a  fiery  acid.  He  read 
it,  and  it  ran  like  this : 

"We  are  informed  that  a  surprise  marriage 
took  place  this  morning  at  Rutland.  In  that 
city  Miss  Hetty  Stowe,  of  near  this  place,  was 
united  in  the  holy  bonds  of  wedlock  to  Mr. 
Gabriel  Eno,  of  Vergennes.  We  did  not  get  the 
name  of  the  officiating  minister.  The  bride  is 
an  estimable  lady  who  for  years  past  has  taught 
District  School  Number  Four  in  the  county. 
We  have  not  the  pleasure  of  the  happy  bride 
groom's  acquaintance  but  assume  he  is  in 
every  way  worthy  of  the  lady  he  has  won  for  a 
wife.  Ye  Editor  extends  congratulations  to 
the  happy  pair  and  will  print  further  details 
when  secured." 

He  read  it  through  again,  to  the  last  blurred 
word.  And  as  he  reread  a  roaring  and  a  crash 
ing  filled  his  ears.  It  was  the  castle  of  his  hopes 
crashing  down  in  ruins.  So  this,  then  was  why 
the  sequence  of  letters  had  been  so  abruptly 
broken  off.  She  had  lacked  the  courage  to  tell 
him  of  her  faithlessness;  she  had  chosen  the 
course  of  silence,  leaving  him  to  learn  of  the 
treachery  through  other  sources.  It  was  cruelty 
piled  upon  cruelty  compounded. 

For  such  a  sorry  ending  he  had  cut  four 
years  out  of  his  life.  For  this  reward  of  all  his 
constancy  he  had  endured  what  bad  been  well- 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

nigh  unendurable — loneliness,  homesickness, 
isolation,  discomfort.  For  this  he  had  kept  his 
body  clean  and  his  soul  clean  where  all  about 
him  was  sloth  and  slackness.  He  thought 
backward  upon  that  which  he  had  undergone; 
he  thought  forward  upon  the  dreary  purposeless 
prospect  that  stretched  unendingly  before  him. 
Never  now  could  he  bring  himself  to  go  back 
to  the  spot  of  his  shattered  dreams.  And  to 
him  that  was  the  one  place  in  all  the  world 
worth  going  back  to. 

He  put  his  face  down  upon  his  crossed  arms, 
and  presently  there  began  to  escape  from  him 
strangled  sobs  sounding  most  grotesquely  like 
some  strange  mimicry  of  the  name  the  native 
girls  had  for  him — "Pooh-pooh,  pooh-pooh, 
pooh-pooh,"  over  and  over  again  repeated. 
Beyond  his  doorstep  the  life  of  the  station 
hummed  and  throbbed,  quickened  into  joyous 
activity  by  the  coming  of  the  steamer.  He  was 
not  conscious  of  it.  That  roaring  still  was  in 
his  ears. 

Now  between  his  racking  sobs  he  began  to 
pray  aloud  a  broken  prayer.  He  did  not  pray 
for  divine  forgiveness  of  the  thing  he  meant 
to  do.  By  the  narrow  tenets  of  his  faith  his 
soul,  through  the  deliberate  act  of  his  hands, 
would  go  forth  from  the  body,  doomed  to  ever 
lasting  torment.  It  did  not  appear  feasible  to 
him  that  God  might  understand.  The  God  he 
believed  in  was  a  stern  God  of  punishments, 
sitting  in  strict  judgment  upon  mortal  trans- 
[  328  ] 


APRIL     THE      FIRST 


gressions.  So  he  prayed  not  for  mercy  but  for 
strength  to  carry  him  through  that  which  faced 
him. 

In  a  cupboard  in  the  inner  room  was  a  single- 
barreled,  muzzle-loading  fowling  piece  made  at 
Liege,  in  Belgium,  many  years  before.  His 
predecessor  in  the  station  had  left  it  behind  him 
and  Pratt  had  succeeded  to  possession  of  it. 
He  knew  how  to  load  and  fire  and  clean  it. 
Occasionally  he  had  used  it  in  shooting  at  wood 
pigeons.  He  went  inside  and  took  it  from  its 
place  and  charged  it  with  black  powder  from 
an  old-fashioned  metal  powder  flask  and  with 
heavy  shot  from  a  worn  shot  pouch.  For  wad 
ding  he  tore  apart  the  front  page  of  the  upper 
most  copy  of  the  file  of  Daily  Republicans  lying 
upon  the  shelf  where  he  had  placed  them  less 
than  half  an  hour  before. 

He  rammed  the  charge  home,  with  wadding 
between  powder  and  shot,  with  more  wadding 
on  top  of  the  shot.  He  withdrew  the  ramrod 
and  cast  it  aside;  he  brought  the  hammer  back 
to  full  cock  and  fixed  a  cap  upon  the  nipple. 
He  stood  the  gun  upright  upon  the  floor  and 
leaned  forward,  the  muzzle  against  his  upper 
chest,  the  stock  braced  against  the  edge  of  a 
crack  in  the  planking.  With  the  great  toe  of 
his  bare  right  foot  he  pressed  the  trigger. 

Two   natives,   passing,   heard    the   booming 

report  and  ran  in  to  see  what  had  caused  it. 

They  quickly  ran  out  again  and  brought  white 

men.     After  the  body  had  been  moved  from 

_.  [329]  " ~ 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

where  it  had  fallen  but  before  the  scanty  per 
sonal  belongings  of  the  dead  man  had  been 
sealed  up  and  before  the  store  had  been  put 
under  lock  and  key,  the  white  men  made  search 
about  the  place  for  any  farewell  message,  or 
lacking  that,  any  physical  evidence  that  might 
furnish  a  possible  explanation  for  the  cause  of 
the  suicide.  They  found  neither  message  nor 
clew.  In  searching  about  one  of  them  came 
upon  a  tattered  scrap  of  newspaper.  Its  burnt 
edges  and  its  general  singed  condition  proved 
that  it  had  been  used  for  wadding.  The  force 
of  the  discharge  had  blown  it  out,  almost  intact, 
to  flutter  off  into  a  corner. 

Moved  by  a  curiosity  natural  under  the  cir 
cumstances  the  finder  deciphered  the  smudged 
and  blackened  reading  that  he  found  upon  the 
two  surfaces  of  the  fragment.  On  one  side 
appeared  part  of  an  advertisement  of  a  mer 
chant  tailor;  on  the  other  side  he  made  out  this, 
which  he  read  with  a  casual  interest  only : 

"The  Editor  regrets  exceedingly  that  in 
yesterday's  issue  he  was  victimised  and  im 
posed  upon  to  the  extent  of  printing  an  erron 
eous  and  entirely  incorrect  item,  for  which 
mistake  we  now  hasten  to  make  prompt  correc 
tion  and  due  amends.  Some  person  unknown, 
taking  advantage  of  the  fact  that  yesterday 
was  April  the  first,  or  All  Fools'  Day,  telephoned 
to  our  sanctum  the  information  that  Miss 
Hetty  Stowe,  the  well-known  teacher,  of  near 
here,  had  been  married  yesterday  morning  at 
~ [  330  ] 


APRIL     THE      FIRST 


Rutland  to  a  Mr.  Gabriel  Eno,  of  Vergennes. 
Accepting  the  report  in  good  faith,  this  paper 
printed  it  in  good  faith,  as  an  item  of  news. 
We  now  learn  that  the  entire  story  was  untrue, 
being,  not  to  mince  words,  a  lie  manufactured 
out  of  the  whole  cloth.  We  learn  that  Miss 
Stowe  knows  the  gentleman  whose  name  was 
given  as  bridegroom  but  very  slightly,  having 
met  him  but  once,  as  we  are  now  reliably  in 
formed.  In  fact,  nothing  could  be  farther 
from  her  thoughts  than  marriage  with  the 
gentleman  in  question,  he  being  considerably 
her  junior  in  years.  The  cruelty  of  the  hoax 
thus  perpetrated  is  increased  by  the  fact  that 
for  the  past  several  days  Miss  Stowe  has  been 
confined  to  the  bed  of  illness,  suffering  from  a 
sudden  and  violent  attack  of  fever,  which 
illness  has  naturally  been  enhanced  by  the 
embarrassing  position  in  which  she  has  been 
placed  through  the  act  of  an  anonymous  prac 
tical  joker.  Such  jokes  are  entirely  out  of  place 
and  cannot  be  too  strongly  reprehended.  In 
correcting  this  falsehood  the  Daily  Republican 
wishes  to  state  that  the  perpetrator  of  the  same 
is  deserving  of  severe " 

Here  the  fragment  was  torn  across. 

To  the  tale  there  is  no  moral  unless  it  be  an 
indirect  moral  to  be  derived  from  contempla 
tion  of  a  strange  contradiction  in  our  modern 
life,  to  wit:  That  practical  burglary  is  by  law 
sternly  discouraged  and  practical  joking  is  not. 

[331] 


CHAPTER  VIII 
HOODWINKED 


SPY  stories  rather   went  out    of    fashion 
when    the    armistice    was    signed.     But 
this  one  could  not  have  been  told  before 
now,    because    it    happened    after    the 
armies  had  quit  fighting  and  while  the  Peace 
Conference  was  busily  engaged  in  belying  its 
first  name.     Also,  in  a  strict  manner  of  speak 
ing,  it  is  not  a  spy  story  at  all. 

So  far  as  our  purposes  are  concerned,  it  began 
to  happen  on  an  afternoon  at  the  end  of  the 
month  of  March  of  this  present  year,  when 
J.  J.  Mullinix,  of  the  Secret  Service,  called  on 
Miss  Mildred  Smith,  the  well-known  interior 
decorator,  in  her  studio  apartments  on  the  top 
floor  of  one  of  the  best-looking  apartment  houses 
in  town.  For  Mullinix  there  was  a  short  delay 
downstairs  because  the  doorman,  sharp  on  the 
lookout  to  bar  pestersome  intruders  who  might 
annoy  the  tenants,  could  not  at  first  make  up 
his  mind  about  Mullinix.  In  this  building 
there  was  a  rule  against  solicitors,  canvassers, 
collectors,  pedlar  men  and  beggar  men;  also 
one  against  babies,  but  none  against  dogs — • 
[332  ] 


HOODWINKED 


excepting  dogs  above  a  certain  specified  size, 
which — without  further  description — should 
identify  our  building  as  one  standing  in  what  is 
miscalled  the  exclusive  residential  belt  of  Man 
hattan  Island. 

The  doorman  could  not  make  up  his  mind  off 
hand  whether  Mullinix  was  to  be  classified  as  a 
well-dressed  mendicant  or  an  indifferently  dressed 
book  agent;  he  was  pretty  sure,  though,  that 
the  stranger  fell  somewhere  within  the  general 
ban  touching  on  dubious  persons  having  dubious 
intentions.  This  doubt  on  the  part  of  the  door 
man  was  rather  a  compliment  to  Mullinix,  con 
sidering  Mullinix's  real  calling.  For  Mullinix 
resembled  neither  the  detective  of  fiction  nor 
yet  the  detective  of  sober  fact,  which  is  exactly 
what  the  latter  usually  is — a  most  sober  fact; 
sober,  indeed,  often  to  the  point  of  a  serious 
and  dignified  impressiveness.  This  man, 
though,  did  not  have  the  eagle-bird  eye  with 
which  the  detective  of  fiction  so  of  ten  is  favoured. 
He  did  not  'have  the  low  flattened  arches — 
frontal  or  pedal — which  frequently  distinguish 
the  bona-fide  article,  who  comes  from  Headquar 
ters  with  a  badge  under  his  left  lapel  and  a  cigar 
under  his  right  moustache  to  question  the  sus 
pected  hired  girl.  About  him  there  was  nothing 
mysterious,  nothing  portentous,  nothing  inscru 
table.  He  had  a  face  which  favourably  would 
have  attracted  a  person  taking  orders  for  en 
larging  family  portraits.  He  had  the  accom- 
modating  manner  of  one  who  is  willing  to  go  up 
[  333  ] 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

when  the  magician  asks  for  a  committee  out  of 
the  audience  to  sit  on  the  stage. 

Not  ten  individuals  alive  knew  of  his  con 
nection  with  the  Secret  Service.  Probably  in 
all  his  professional  life  not  ten  others — out 
siders — had  ever  appraised  him  for  what  he 
was.  His  finest  asset  was  a  gift  of  Nature — 
a  sort  of  protective  colouration  which  enabled 
him  to  hide  in  the  background  of  common- 
placeness  and  do  his  work  with  an  assurance 
which  would  not  have  been  possible  had  he 
worn  an  air  of  assurance.  In  short  and  in  fine, 
Mullinix  no  more  resembled  the  traditional 
hawkshaw  than  Miss  Mildred  Smith  resembled 
the  fashionable  conception  of  a  fashionable 
artist.  She  never  gestured  with  an  up-turned 
thumb;  nor  yet  made  a  spy-glass  of  her  cupped 
hand  through  which  to  gaze  upon  a  painting. 
She  had  never  worn  a  smock  frock  in  her  life. 

The  smartest  of  smart  tailor-mades  was  none 
too  smart  for  her.  Nothing  was  too  smart  for 
her,  who  was  so  exquisitely  fine  and  well-bred 
a  creature,  She  was  wearing  tailor-mades,  with 
a  trig  hat  to  match,  when  she  opened  the  door 
of  her  entry  hall  for  Mullinix. 

"Just  going  out,  weren't  you?"  he  asked  as 
they  shook  hands. 

"No,  just  coming  in,"  she  said.  "I  had  only 
just  come  in  when  the  hall  man  called  me  up 
saying  you  were  downstairs." 

"I  had  trouble  getting  him  to  send  up  my 
name  at  all,"  he  said  with  a  half  smile  on  his 


HOODWINKED 


face.  "He  insisted  on  knowing  all  about  me 
and  my  business  before  he  announced  me.  So  I 
told  him  everything  nearly — except  the  truth." 

"I  gathered  from  his  tone  he  was  a  bit  doubt 
ful  about  you;  but  I  was  glad  to  get  the  word. 
This  is  the  third  time  you've  favoured  me  with 
a  visit  and  each  of  the  other  times  something 
highly  exciting  followed.  Come  in  and  let  me 
make  you  a  cup  of  tea,  won't  you?  Is  it 
business  that  brings  you?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "it's  business." 

They  sat  down  in  the  big  inner  studio  room; 
on  one  side  of  the  fireplace  the  short,  slow- 
speaking,  colourless-looking  man  who  knew  the 
inner  blackness  of  so  many  whited  sepulchres; 
and  on  the  other  side,  facing  him  from  across 
the  tea  table,  this  small  patrician  lady  who, 
having  rich  kinfolk  and  friends  still  richer  and  a 
family  tree  deep-rooted  in  the  most  Knicker- 
bockian  stratum  of  the  Manhattan  social  schist, 
nevertheless  chose  to  earn  her  own  living;  and 
while  earning  it  to  find  opportunity  for  service 
to  her  Government  in  a  confidential  capacity. 
Not  all  the  volunteers  who  worked  on  difficult 
espionage  jobs  through  the  wartime  carried 
cards  from  the  Intelligence  Department. 

"Yes,"  he  repeated,  "it's  business — a  bigger 
piece  of  business  and  a  harder  one  and  probably 
a  more  interesting  one  than  the  last  thing  you 
helped  on.  If  it  weren't  business  I  wouldn't 
be  coming  here  to-day,  taking  up  your  time. 
I  know  how  busy  you  are  with  your  own  affairs.'* 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

"Oh,  I'm  not  busy,"  she  said.  "This  is  one 
of  my  loafing  days.  Since  lunch  time  I've  been 
indulging  in  my  favourite  passion.  I've  been 
prowling  through  a  secondhand  bookstore  over 
on  Lexington  Avenue,  picking  up  bargains. 
There's  the  fruit  of  my  shopping." 

She  indicated  a  pile  of  five  or  six  nibbled- 
looking  volumes  in  dingy  covers  resting  upon 
one  corner  of  the  low  mantelshelf. 

"Works  on  interior  decorating?"  he  guessed. 

"Goodness,  no!  Decorating  is  my  business; 
this  is  my  pleasure.  The  top  one  of  the  heap — 
the  one  bound  in  red — is  all  about  chess." 

"Chess!  Did  anybody  ever  write  a  whole 
book  about  chess?" 

"I  believe  more  books  have  been  written  on 
chess  than  on  any  other  individual  subject  in 
the  world,  barring  Masonry,"  she  said.  "And 
the  next  one  to  it — the  yellow-bound  one — is  a 
book  about  old  English  games;  not  games  of 
chance,  but  games  for  holidays  and  parties.  I 
was  glancing  through  it  in  my  car  on  the  way 
here  from  the  shop.  It's  most  interesting. 
Why,  some  of  the  games  it  tells  about  were 
played  in  England  before  William  the  Con 
queror  landed;  at  least  so  the  author  claims. 
Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  game  called  Shoe  the 
Wild  Mare?  It  was  very  popular  in  Queen 
Elizabeth's  day.  The  book  yonder  says  so." 

"No,  I  never  heard  of  it.  From  the  name  it 
sounds  as  though  it  might  be  rather  a  rough 
game  for  indoors,"  commented  Mullinix.  "For 
~" 1336] 


HOODWINKED 


a  busy  woman  who's  made  such  a  big  success  at 
her  calling,  I  wonder  how  you  find  time  to  dig 
into  so  many  miscellaneous  subjects." 

"I  don't  call  the  time  wasted,"  she  said. 
"For  example,  there's  one  book  in  that  lot 
dealing  with  mushroom  culture.  It  seems 
there's  ever  so  much  to  know  about  mushrooms. 
Besides,  who  knows  but  what  some  day  I  might 
have  a  wealthy  client  who  would  want  me  to 
design  him  a  mushroom  cellar,  combining 
practicability  with  the  decorative.  Then,  you 
see,  I  would  have  the  knowledge  at  my  finger 
tips."  She  smiled  at  the  conceit,  busying  her 
self  with  the  tea  things. 

"Well,  I  suppose  I'm  a  one-idea-at-a-time 
sort  of  person,"  he  said. 

"No,  you  aren't!  You  only  think  you  are," 
she  amended.  "Just  now  I  suppose  you  are  all 
so  wrapped  up  in  the  business  you  mentioned 
a  moment  ago  that  you  can't  think  of  anything 
else." 

"That's  a  fact,"  he  confessed.  "And  yet 
all  my  thinking  doesn't  seem  to  have  got  me 
anywhere  in  particular."  He  paused  to  glance 
about.  "Where's  your  maid?  Is  she,  by  any 
chance,  where  she  could  overhear  us?" 

"No,  she's  out.     This  is  her  afternoon  off." 

"Good!  Then  I'll  start  at  the  beginning  and 
tell  you  in  as  few  words  as  possible  the  whole 
thing.  But  before  I  do  begin,  let  me  ask  you  a 
question.  It  may  simplify  matters.  Anyhow 
it  has  a  bearing  on  my  principal  reason  for 
'  "~  '  '  [  337  ] 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

coming  to  see  you  to-day.  Isn't  Mrs.  Howard 
Hadley-Smith  your  cousin?" 

"Only  by  marriage.  Her  husband  was  my 
second  cousin.  He  belonged  to  the  branch  of 
the  family  that  owns  the  hyphen  and  most  of 
the  money.  He  died  six  or  seven  years  ago. 
He  was  not  the  most  perfect  creature  in  the 
world,  but  Claire,  his  wife — his  widow,  I 
mean — is  a  trump.  She's  one  of  the  finest 
women  and  one  of  the  sanest  in  New  York." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  that.  Because  before 
we're  through  with  this  job — you  see  I'm 
assuming  in  advance  that  you  are  going  to  be 
willing  to  help  me  on  it — I  say,  before  we  get 
through  it,  providing  of  course  we  do  get 
through  it,  it  may  be  necessary  to  take  her  into 
our  confidence.  That  is,  if  you  are  sure  we 
can  trust  absolutely  to  her  discretion." 

"We  can.  But  please  remember  that  I 
don't  know  what  the  business  is  all  about." 

"  I'm  coming  to  that.  Oh,  by  the  way,  there 
is  one  question  more:  To-morrow  night  your 
cousin  is  giving  a  costume  party  or  a  fancy- 
dress  party  of  some  sort  or  other,  isn't  she?" 

"Yes;  an  All  Fools'  Day  party;  not  a  very 
large  one  though." 

"And  you  will  be  going  to  it,  won't  you?" 

"Yes,  indeed!  I'm  doing  the  decorating 
and  acting  as  sort  of  assistant  director  of  the 
affair.  But  what  can  my  cousin  and  her  April 
Fools'  Day  party  and  all  that  have  to  do  with 

the  matter  that  brings  you  here?" 

[338] 


HOODWINKED 


"A  good  deal,  I  hope.  But  I  expect  I  had 
better  go  back  to  the  beginning  and  tell  you  the 
tale  in  some  sort  of  orderly  way.  Of  course 
I  am  telling  it  to  you  as  one  responsible  repre 
sentative  of  our  Government  to  another." 

"I  understand.  But  go  ahead,  won't  you? 
My  curiosity  is  increasing  by  the  moment." 

"Well  then,  here  it  is:  Six  days  ago  there 
arrived  from  the  conference  at  Versailles  a  high 
army  officer,  acting  for  this  occasion  as  a  con 
fidential  messenger  of  the  Administration.  He 
brought  with  him  a  certain  communication — a 
single  small  sheet  or  strip  of  parchment  paper 
containing  about  twelve  or  fifteen  typewritten 
lines.  But  those  few  lines  were  about  as  im 
portant  and,  under  certain  circumstances,  as 
dangerous  a  collection  of  typewritten  lines  as  it 
is  possible  to  conceive  of." 

"Weren't  they  in  code?" 

"Naturally.  But  the  signature  was  not. 
The  signature  was  in  the  handwriting  of  the 
man — let  us  say  the  personage — who  dictated 
the  wording  of  the  dispatch.  You  would 
know  that  handwriting  if  you  saw  it.  Nearly 
every  man,  woman  and  child  in  this  country 
who  can  read  would  know  it  and  would  recognise 
it  at  a  glance.  Even  between  us,  I  take  it  that 
there  is  no  need  of  mentioning  the  name." 

"No.  Please  go  on.  The  thing  has  a  thrill 
ing  sound  already." 

"That   communication    dealt   directly    with 

perhaps  the  most  important  single  issue  now  in 
__ 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

controversy  at  the  Peace  Conference — a  phase 
of  the  Asiatic  muddle.  In  fact,  it  was  an  out 
line  of  the  private  agreement  that  has  been 
reached  as  between  our  envoys  and  the  envoys 
representing  sundry  friendly  powers  in  regard 
to  this  particular  question.  If  it  should  fall 
into  the  hands  of  a  certain  other  power — and  be 
translated — the  entire  negotiation  would  be 
jeopardised.  Almost  inevitably  at  least  one 
Oriental  nation  would  withdraw  from  the  con 
ference.  The  future  of  the  great  thing  for 
which  our  own  statesmen  and  the  statesmen  of 
some  of  the  countries  provisionally  leagued 
together  with  us  are  working — well,  that  result, 
to  put  the  thing  mildly,  would  be  jeopardised. 
The  very  least  that  could  happen  would  be  that 
four  governments  would  be  tremendously  em 
barrassed. 

"Indeed  it  is  hard  offhand  to  calculate  the 
possibilities  of  disaster,  but  this  much  is  quite 
sure:  Our  enemy — and  Germany  is  as  much  our 
enemy  now  as  she  was  during  active  hostilities — 
would  almost  inevitably  succeed  in  the  ver^f 
thing  she  has  been  plotting  to  bring  about, 
which  is  the  sowing  of  discord  among  the  Allies, 
not  to  mention  the  increase  of  a  racial  distrust 
and  a  racial  antagonism  which  exist  in  certain 
quarters,  and,  on  top  of  all  that,  the  widening 
and  deepening  of  a  problem  which  already  has 
been  sufficiently  difficult  and  delicate." 

"I  see.     Well?" 

"Well,  naturally  everything  possible  was 
[340] 


HOODWINKED 


done  at  Washington  to  safeguard  a  dispatch  of 
such  tremendous  importance.  No  copies  of  the 
communication  were  made.  The  original  was 
put  in  a  place  where  it  was  presumed  to  be 
absolutely  safe.  But  within  forty-eight  hours 
it  disappeared  from  the  place  where  it  had  been 
put." 

"How  did  it  disappear?    Is  that  known?" 

"It  was  stolen.  A  government  clerk  named 
Westerfeltner,  a  man  who  held  a  place  of  trust 
and  confidence,  was  the  man  who  stole  it.  For 
it  he  was  offered  a  sum  of  money  which  would 
make  him  independent  for  life,  and  under  the 
temptation  he  weakened  and  he  stole  it.  But 
first  he  stole  the  key  to  the  cipher,  which  would 
mafee  it  possible  for  any-one  having  both  the 
key  and  the  message  to  decode  the  message. 
Once  this  is  done  the  damage  is  done,  for  the 
signature  is  ample  proof  of  the  validity  of  the 
document.  That  is  the  one  thing  above  all 
others  we  are  trying  to  prevent  now." 

"But  why  couldn't  the  thief  have  decoded 
tie  dispatch?" 

"He  might  have,  excepting  for  two  things. 
In  the  first  place  his  principal,  the  man  who 
corrupted  him  to  betray  his  honour  and  inci 
dentally  to  betray  his  Government,  would  not 
trust  him  to  do  this.  The  head  plotter  de 
manded  the  original  paper.  In  the  second 
place  an  interval  of  a  day  and  a  half  elapsed 
between  the  theft  of  the  code  and  the  theft  of 
the  dispatch.  Before  the  thief  secured  the  dis- 


FROM'     PLACE     TO     PLACE 

patch  the  key  had  already  passed  out  of  his 
possession." 

"How  do  you  know  these  things  with  such 
certainty?" 

"Because  Westerfeltner  has  confessed.  He 
confessed  to  me  at  three  o'clock  yesterday 
morning  after  the  thefts  had  practically  been 
traced  to  his  door.  He  made  a  clean  breast  of 
it  all  right  enough.  The  high  points  of  his  con 
fession  have  all  been  verified.  I  am  sure  that 
he  was  honest  with  me.  Fear  and  remorse 
together  made  him  honest.  At  present  he  is — 
well,  let's  call  it  sequestered.  No  outsider 
knows  he  is  now  under  arrest;  or  perhaps  I 
should  say  in  custody.  No  interested  party  is 
likely  to  feel  concern  regarding  his  whereabouts, 
because  so  far  as  he  was  concerned  the  crooked 
contract  had  been  carried  out  and  completed 
before  he  actually  fell  under  suspicion." 

"Meaning  by  that,  what?" 

"Meaning  just  this:  On  the  night  he  secured 
possession  of  the  key  he  handed  it  over  to  his 
principal,  who  still  has  it  unless  he  has  destroyed 
it.  It  is  fair  to  assume  that  this  other  man, 
being  a  co.de  expert,  already  has  memorised  the 
key  so  that  he  can  read  the  dispatch  almost 
offhand.  At  least  that  is  the  assumption  upon 
which  I  am  going." 

"All  this  happened  in  Washington,  I  sup 
pose?" 

"Yes,  in  Washington.  The  original  under- 
standing  was  that  as  soon  as  possible  after 


HOODWINKED 


stealing  the  dispatch  Westerfeltner  would  turn 
it  over  to  the  other  man.  But  something — we 
don't  know  yet  just  what — frightened  the 
master  crook  out  of  town.  With  the  job  only 
partially  accomplished  he  left  Washington  and 
came  to  New  York.  But  before  leaving  he  gave 
to  Westerfeltner  explicit  instructions  for  the 
delivery  of  the  dispatch — when  he  had  suc 
ceeded  in  getting  his  hands  on  it — to  a  third 
party,  a  special  go-between,  with  whom  Wester 
feltner  was  to  communicate  by  telephone. 

"Late  the  next  day  Westerfeltner  did  suc 
ceed  in  getting  his  hands  on  the  document. 
That  same  evening,  in  accordance  with  his 
instructions,  he  called  up  from  his  house  a 
certain  number.  He  had  been  told  to  call  this 
number  exactly  at  eight  o'clock  and  to  ask  for 
Mrs.  Williams.  Without  delay  he  got  Mrs, 
Williams  on  the  wire.  Over  the  wire  a  woman's 
voice  told  him  to  meet  her  at  the  McPherson 
Statue  in  McPherson  Square  at  eleven-fifteen 
o'clock  that  night.  He  was  there  at  the 
appointed  hour,  waiting.  According  to  what 
he  tells  me,  almost  precisely  on  the  minute  a 
woman,  wearing  plain  dark  clothes  and  heavily 
veiled,  came  walking  along  the  path  that  leads 
to  the  statue  from  Fifteenth  Street.  It  was 
dark  there,  anyhow,  and  for  obvious  reasons 
both  the  conspirators  kept  themselves  well 
shielded  in  the  shadows. 

"As  she  came  up  and  saw  him  waiting  there, 
she  uttered  the  catchwords  which  made  him 
[843] 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

know  her  for  the  right  person.  The  words 
were  simple  enough.  She  merely  said  to  him 
'Did  you  go  to  the  pawnshop?'  He  answered 
'Yes,  I  went  there  and  I  got  your  keepsake.' 
'Thank  you,'  she  answered,  'then  give  it  to  me.' 
'Here  it  is,  safe  and  sound,'  he  replied  and 
passed  to  her  the  paper,  which  was  wadded  up, 
he  says,  in  a  pellet  about  the  size  of  a  hazelnut. 

"Up  to  this  point  the  pair  had  been  speaking 
in  accordance  with  a  sort  of  memorised  ritual, 
each  knowing  from  the  instructions  given  to 
both  by  their  employer  what  the  other  would 
say.  But  before  they  parted  they  exchanged  a 
few  other  words.  Westerfeltner  tells  me  that, 
having  his  own  safety  in  mind  as  well  as  a 
natural  anxiety  for  the  safe  delivery  of  the 
paper  to  its  real  purchaser,  he  said  to  her: 
'I  hope  you  understand  that  you  should  keep 
this  thing  in  your  possession  for  every  minute 
of  the  time  until  you  hand  it  over  to  our  mutual 
friend.' 

"As  he  recalls  her  answer,  as  nearly  as 
possible  in  the  words  she  used,  she  said:  'Cer 
tainly  I  do.  It  will  be  kept  on  my  person  where 
I  can  put  my  hand  on  it,  but  where  no  one  else 
can  see  it  and  where  no  one  else  will  ever  sus 
pect  it  of  being.'  Then  she  asked  him:  'Was 
there  anything  else  you  wanted  to  say  to 
me?'  He  told  her  there  was  nothing  else  and 
she  said  good  night  to  him  and  turned  and 
walked  away  in  the  direction  from  which  she 
had  come.  He  waited  a  minute  or  so  and  then 


HOODWINKED 


walked  off,  leaving  the  square  on  the  opposite 
side — the  Vermont  Avenue  side.  He  went 
directly  home  and  went  to  bed. 

"He  is  unmarried  and  lives  alone,  taking  his 
luncheons  and  dinners  out,  but  preparing  his 
own  breakfasts  in  his  rooms.  At  three  o'clock 
in  the  morning  he  was  in  bed  and  asleep  when  I 
rang  his  doorbell.  In  his  night  clothes  he  got 
up  and  let  me  in;  and  as  soon  as  I  was  in  I 
accused  him.  As  a  matter  of  fact  the  double 
theft  had  been  discovered  the  evening  before, 
but  unfortunately  by  then  several  hours  had 
elapsed  from  the  time  the  dispatch  was  taken, 
and  already,  as  you  know,  the  dispatch  had 
changed  hands. 

"Within  an  hour  after  the  discovery  of  the 
loss  I  had  been  set  to  work  on  the  job.  At 
once  suspicion  fell  upon  three  men,  one  after 
the  other.  It  didn't  take  very  long  to  con 
vince  me  that  two  of  these  men  were  innocent. 
So  these  two  having  been  eliminated  by  deduc 
tive  processes,  I  personally  went  after  the  third 
man,  who  was  this  Westerfeltner.  The  moment 
I  walked  in  on  him  I  was  convinced  from  his 
behaviour  that  I  had  made  no  mistake.  So  I 
took  a  chance.  I  charged  him  point-blank  with 
being  the  thief.  Almost  immediately  he  weak 
ened.  His  denials  turned  to  admissions.  As  a 
conspirator  Westerfeltner  is  a  lame  duck.  I 
only  wish  I  had  started  after  him  three  or  four 
hours  earlier  than  I  did;  if  only  I  had  done  so 
I'm  satisfied  the  paper  would  be  back  where  it 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

belongs  and  no  damage  done.  Well,  anyhow,  if 
I  am  one  to  judge,  he  told  me  everything  frankly 
and  held  back  nothing." 

"Well,  then,  who  is  the  woman  in  the  case?" 

"He  didn't  know.  To  his  best  knowledge  he 
had  never  seen  her  before  that  night.  He  is  sure 
that  he  had  never  heard  her  voice  before. 
Really,  all  he  does  know  about  her  is  that  she  is 
a  small,  slender  woman  with  rather  quick, 
decided  movements  and  that  her  voice  is  that 
of  a  refined  person.  He  is  sure  she  is  a  young 
woman,  but  he  can  furnish  no  better  description 
of  her  than  this.  He  claims  he  was  very  ner 
vous  at  the  time  of  their  meeting.  I  figure  he 
was  downright  excited,  filled  as  he  was  with 
guilty  apprehensions,  and  no  doubt  because  of 
his  excitement  he  took  less  notice  of  her  than 
he  otherwise  might.  Besides,  you  must  remem 
ber  that  the  place  of  rendezvous  was  a  fairly 
dark  spot  on  rather  a  dark  night." 

"He  has  absolutely  no  idea  of  his  own,  then, 
as  to  the  identity  of  Mrs.  Williams?" 

"He  hasn't;  but  I  have.  The  telephone 
number  which  figures  in  the  case  is  the  number 
of  a  pay  station  in  an  all-night  drug  store  in 
Washington.  Westerfeltner  freely  gave  me  the 
number.  Both  the  proprietor  of  this  drug 
store  and  his  clerk  remember  that  night  before 
last,  shortly  before  eight  o'clock,  a  rather  small, 
slight  woman  wearing  a  black  street  costume 
with  a  dark  veil  over  her  face  came  into  the 
place  and  said  she  was  expecting  a  telephone 
[3*6]  


HOODWINKED 


call  for  Mrs.  Williams.  Within  two  or  three 
minutes  the  bell  rang  and  the  clerk  answered 
and  somebody  asked  for  Mrs.  Williams.  The 
woman  entered  the  booth,  came  out  almost 
immediately,  and  went  away.  All  that  the 
drugstore  man  and  his  clerk  remember  about 
her  is  that  she  was  a  young  woman,  plainly 
dressed  but  well-groomed.  The  druggist  is 
positive  she  had  dark  hair;  the  clerk  is  inclined 
to  think  her  hair  was  a  deep  reddish-brown. 
Neither  of  them  saw  her  face;  neither  of  them 
remarked  anything  unusual  about  her.  To  them 
she  was  merely  a  woman  who  came  in  to  keep  a 
telephone  engagement,  and  having  kept  it  went 
away  again.  So,  having  run  into  a  blind  alley 
at  that  end  of  the  case,  I  started  in  at  the  other 
end  of  it  to  find  the  one  lady  to  whom  naturally 
the  chief  conspirator  would  turn  for  help  in  the 
situation  that  confronted  him  when  he  ran  away 
from  Washington.  And  I  found  her — both  of 
her  in  fact." 

"Both  of  her!  Then  there  are  two  women 
involved?" 

"No,  only  one;  but  which  one  of  two  suspects 
she  is  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  decide.  I  know 
who  she  is,  and  yet  I  don't  know.  I'll  come  to 
that  part  of  it  in  a  minute  or  two.  I  haven't 
told  you  the  name  of  the  head  devil  of  the  whole 
intrigue  yet,  have  I?  You've  met  him,  I 
imagine.  At  any  rate  you  surely  have  heard  of 
him. 

"You  know  him,  or  else  you  surely  know  of 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

him,  as  the  Hon.  Sidney  Bertram  Goldsborough* 
of  London,  England,  and  Shanghai,  China." 

"Goodness  gracious  me!"  In  her  astonish 
ment  Miss  Smith  had  recourse  to  an  essentially 
feminine  exclamation.  "Why,  that  does  bring 
it  close  to  home!  Why,  he  is  among  the  per 
sons  invited  to  my  cousin's  house  to-morrow 
night.  I  remember  seeing  his  name  on  the 
invitation  list.  That's  why  you  asked  me  about 
her  party  a  while  ago.  My  cousin  met  him 
somewhere  and  liked  him.  I've  never  seen 
him,  but  I've  heard  about  him.  A  big  mining 
engineer,  isn't  he?" 

"A  big  international  crook,  posing  as  a  mining 
engineer  and  ostensibly  in  this  country  to 
finance  some  important  Korean  concessions — 
that's  what  he  is.  His  real  name  is  Geltmann. 
Here's  his  pedigree  in  a  nutshell :  Born  in  Russia 
of  mixed  German  and  Swiss  parentage.  Edu 
cated  in  England,  where  he  acquired  his  accent 
and  the  monocle  habit.  Perfected  himself  in 
scoundrelism  in  the  competent  finishing  schools 
of  the  Far  East.  Speaks  half  a  dozen  lan 
guages,  including  Chinese  and  Japanese.  Carries 
gilt-edged  credentials  made  in  the  Orient. 
That,  briefly,  is  your  Hon.  Mr.  Sidney  Bertram 
Goldsborough,  when  you  undress  him.  He  was 
officially  suspected  of  being  something  other 
than  what  he  claimed  to  be,  even  before  Wester- 
feltner  divulged  his  name.  In  fact,  he  fell 
under  suspicion  shortly  after  he  turned  up  in 
Paris  in  January  of  this  year,  he  having  ob- 


HOODWINKED 


tained  a  passport  for  France  on  the  strength  of 
his  credentials  and  on  the  representation  that 
he  wanted  to  go  abroad  to  interest  European 
financiers  in  that  high-sounding  Korean  devel 
opment  scheme  of  his — which,  by  the  way,  is 
purely  imaginary.  He  hung  about  Paris  for 
three  months.  How  he  found  out  about  the 
document  which  the  army  officer  was  bringing 
home,  and  how  he  found  out  that  the  officer — in 
order  to  save  time — would  travel  on  a  French 
liner  instead  of  on  a  transport,  are  details  that 
are  yet  to  be  cleared  up  by  our  people  on  the 
other  side.  There  has  been  no  time  yet  of 
course  to  take  up  the  chase  over  there  in  Paris. 
But  obviously  there  must  have  been  a  leak 
somewhere.  Either  some  one  abroad  was  in 
collusion  with  him  or  perhaps  indiscreetness 
rather  than  guilty  connivance  was  responsible 
for  his  learning  what  he  did  learn.  As  to  that, 
I  can't  say. 

"But  the  point  remains  that  Geltmann 
sailed  on  the  same  ship  that  brought  the  army 
officer.  Evidently  he  hoped  to  get  possession 
of  the  paper  the  officer  carried  on  the  way  over. 
Failing  there,  he  tried  other  means.  He  fol 
lowed  the  officer  down  to  Washington,  seduced 
Westerfeltner  by  the  promise  of  a  fat  bribe,  and 
then,  just  when  his  scheme  was  about  to  suc 
ceed,  became  frightened  and  returned  to  New 
York,  trusting  to  a  woman  confederate  to 
deliver  the  paper  to  him  here.  And  now  he's 
here,  awaiting  her  arrival,  and  from  all  the 
"~""~""- '  [349]  


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

evidence  available  he  expects  to  get  it  from  her 
to-morrow  night  at  your  cousin's  party." 

"Then  the  woman  is  to  be  there  too?"  Miss 
Smith's  eyes  were  stretched  wide. 

"She  certainly  is." 

"And  who  is  she — or,  rather,  who  do  you 
think  she  is?" 

"Miss  Smith,  prepare  for  a  shock.  Either 
that  woman  is  Mme.  Josephine  Ybanca,  the 
wife  of  the  famous  South  American  diplomat,  or 
else  she  is  Miss  Evelyn  Ballister,  sister  of 
United  States  Senator  Hector  Ballister.  And 
I  am  pretty  sure  that  you  must  know  both  of 
them." 

"I  do!  I  do!  I  know  Miss  Ballister  fairly  well, 
and  I  have  met  Madame  Ybanca  twice — once 
here  in  New  York,  once  at  Washington.  And 
let  me  say  now,  that  at  first  blush  I  do  not  find  it 
in  my  heart  to  suspect  either  of  them  of  delib 
erate  wrongdoing.  I  don't  think  they  are  that 
sort." 

"I  don't  wonder  you  say  that,"  answered 
Mullinix.  "Also  I  think  I  know  you  well 
enough  to  feel  sure  that  the  fact  that  both  of 
them  are  to  be  guests  of  your  cousin,  Mrs. 
Hadley-Smith,  to-morrow  night  has  no  in 
fluence  upon  you  in  forming  your  judgments  of 
these  two  young  women." 

"I  know  Miss  Ballister  has  been  invited  and 
has  accepted.  But  I  think  you  must  be  wrong 
when  you  say  Madame  Ybanca  is  also  ex- 
pected." 


HOODWINKED 


"When  was  the  last  time  you  saw  your 
cousin?" 

"The  day  before  yesterday,  I  think  it  was, 
but  only  for  a  few  minutes." 

"Well,  yesterday  she  sent  a  telegram  to 
Madame  Ybanea  saying  she  understood  Ma 
dame  Ybanca  would  be  coming  up  from  Washing 
ton  this  week  and  asking  her  to  waive  formality 
and  come  to  the  party." 

"You  say  my  cousin  sent  such  a  wire?" 

"I  read  the  telegram.  Likewise  I  read 
Madame  Ybanca's  reply,  filed  at  half  after  six 
o'clock  yesterday  evening,  accepting  the  invi 
tation." 

"But  surely" — and  now  there  was  mounting 
incredulity  and  indignation  in  Miss  Smith's 
tone — "but  surely  no  one  dares  to  assert  that 
my  cousin  is  conniving  at  anything  improper?" 

"Certainly  not!  If  I  thought  she  was  doing 
anything  wrong  I  would  hardly  be  asking  you 
to  help  trap  her,  would  I?  Didn't  I  tell  you 
that  we  might  even  have  to  enlist  your  cousin's 
co-operation?  But  I  imagine,  when  you  make 
inquiry,  as  of  course  you  will  do  at  once,  you'll 
find  that  since  you  saw  your  cousin  she  has 
seen  Goldsborough,  or  Geltmann — to  give  him 
his  real  name — and  that  he  asked  her  to  send 
the  wire  to  Madame  Ybanca." 

"That  being  assumed  as  correct,  the  weight 
of  the  proof  would  seem  to  press  upon  the 
madame  rather  than  upon  Miss  Ballister, 
wouldn't  it?" 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

"Frankly  I  don't  know.  At  times  to-day, 
coming  up  here  on  the  train,  I  have  thought 
she  must  be  the  guilty  one,  and  at  times  I  have 
felt  sure  that  she  was  not.  But  this  much  I  do 
know:  One  of  those  two  ladies  is  absolutely 
innocent  of  any  wrongdoing,  and  the  other 
one — pardon  my  language — is  as  guilty  as  hell. 
But  perhaps  it  is  only  fair  to  both  that  you 
should  suspend  judgment  altogether  until  I 
have  finished  telling  you  the  whole  business,  as 
far  as  I  know  it. 

"Let  us  go  back  a  bit.  Half  an  hour  after  I 
had  heard  Westerfeltner's  confession  and  fifteen 
minutes  after  I  had  seen  the  druggist  and  his 
clerk,  the  entire  machinery  of  our  branch  of  the 
service  had  been  set  in  motion  to  find  out  what 
women  in  Washington  were  friends  of  Gelt- 
mann.  For  Geltmann  spent  most  of  last  fall  in 
Washington.  Now  while  in  Washington  he 
was  noticeably  attentive  to  just  two  women — 
Miss  Ballister  and  Madame  Ybanca.  Now 
mark  a  lengthening  of  the  parallel:  Both  of 
them  are  small  women;  both  of  them  are  slender; 
both  are  young,  and  both  of  course  have  refined 
voices.  Neither  speaks  with  any  special 
accent,  for  the  madame,  though  married  to  a 
Latin,  is  an  American  woman.  She  has  black 
hair,  while  Miss  Ballister's  hair  is  a  golden 
red-brown.  So  far,  you  see,  the  vague  descrip 
tion  furnished  by  the  three  men  who  spoke  to 
the  mythical  Mrs.  Williams  might  apply  to 

either." 

[852]  


HOODWINKED 


"Then  which  of  the  two  is  supposed  to  have 
been  most  attracted  to  Geltmann,  as  you  call 
him?" 

Mullinix  smiled  a  trifle. 

"I  was  rather  expecting  that  question  would 
come  along  about  here,"  he  said.  "I  only  wish 
I  could  tell  you;  it  might  simplify  matters. 
But  so  far  as  the  available  evidence  points, 
there  is  nothing  to  indicate  that  either  of  them 
really  cared  for  him  or  he  for  either  of  them. 
The  attentions  which  he  paid  them  both, 
impartially,  were  those  which  a  man  might  pay 
to  any  woman,  whether  she  was  married  or 
unmarried,  without  creating  gossip.  There  is 
no  suggestion  here  of  a  dirty  scandal.  The 
woman  who  is  serving  Geltmann's  ends  is  doing 
it,  not  for  love  of  him  and  not  even  because  she 
is  fascinated  by  him,  but  for  money.  She  has 
agreed  to  sell  out  her  country,  the  land  she  was 
born  in,  for  hire.  I'm  sure  of  that  much." 

"Then  which  of  them  is  presumed  to  be  in 
pressing  need  of  funds?" 

"Again  you  score.  I  was  expecting  that 
question  too.  As  a  matter  of  fact  both  of  them 
need  money.  Madame  Ybanca  belongs  to  a 
bridge-playing  set — a  group  of  men  and  women 
who  play  for  high  stakes.  She  has  been  a 
heavy  loser  and  her  husband,  unlike  many 
politically  prominent  South  Americans,  is  not 
a  fabulously  wealthy  man.  I  doubt  whether 
he  would  be  called  wealthy  at  all,  either  by  the 
standards  of  his  own  people  or  of  ours.  As  for 
~ [353] 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

Miss  Ballister,  I  have  reports  which  prove  she 
has  no  source  of  income  except  a  modest  allow 
ance  from  her  brother,  the  senator,  who  is  in 
moderate  circumstances  only;  yet  it  is  common 
talk  about  Washington  that  she  is  extravagant 
beyond  her  means.  She  owes  considerable 
sums  to  tradesmen  for  frocks  and  furs,  millinery, 
jewelry  and  the  like.  It  is  fair  to  assume  that 
she  is  harassed  by  her  debts.  On  the  other 
hand,  Madame  Ybanca  undoubtedly  wants 
funds  with  which  to  meet  her  losses  at  bridge. 
So  the  presumption  in  this  direction  runs  as 
strongly  against  one  as  against  the  other." 

"Well  then,  barring  these  slight  clews — 
which  to  my  way  of  thinking  really  aren't  clews 
at  all — and  when  you  have  eliminated  the  cir 
cumstance  of  Goldsborough's  having  paid  per 
fectly  proper  attentions  to  both  of  them  simul 
taneously,  what  is  there  to  justify  the  belief 
that  one  or  the  other  must  be  guilty?" 

Miss  Smith's  voice  still  carried  a  suggestion 
of  scepticism. 

"I'm  coming  to  that.  Of  course  their  posi 
tions  being  what  they  are,  neither  I  nor  any 
other  Secret  Service  operative  would  dare 
question  either  one  or  both  of  them.  On  a 
mere  hazard  you  caiihot  go  to  the  beautiful 
young  wife  of  the  distinguished  representative 
of  a  friendly  nation,  and  a  woman  besides  of 
irreproachable  character,  and  accuse  her  of 
being  in  the  pay  of  an  international  crook. 
You  cannot  do  this  any  more  than  you  could 


HOODWINKED 


attempt  a  similar  liberty  with  regard  to  an 
equally  beautiful  woman  of  equally  good  repute 
who  happens  to  be  a  prominent  figure  in  the 
most  exclusive  circles  of  this  country  and  the 
favourite  sister  of  a  leader  on  the  Administration 
side  in  the  United  States  Senate.  Of  course 
since  the  developments  began  to  focus  suspicion 
upon  them,  they  have  been  watched.  Yester 
day  at  church  Miss  Ballister's  wrist  bag  was 
picked.  Along  with  things  of  no  apparent 
significance,  it  contained  a  note  received  by  her 
the  day  before  from  Goldsborough — Geltmann 
rather — reminding  her  that  they  were  to  meet 
to-morrow  night  at  your  cousin's  party.  Later 
in  the  afternoon  Madame  Ybanca  received  a 
telegram  and  sent  an  answer,  as  I  have  told 
you;  a  telegram  inviting  her  to  the  very  same 
party.  Putting  two  and  two  together,  I  think 
I  see  Geltmann's  hand  showing.  Having  put 
two  and  two  together,  I  came  to  New  York  to 
get  in  touch  with  you  and  to  enlist  your  help." 

"But  why  me?" 

"Why  not  you?  I  remembered  that  Mrs. 
Hadley-Smith  was  related  to  you.  I  felt 
pretty  sure  that  you  would  be  going  to  her 
party.  And  I  am  morally  sure  that  at  the 
party  Geltmann  means  to  meet  his  confederate 
— Miss  Ballister  or  Madame  Ybanca,  as  the 
case  may  be — and  to  receive  from  her  the  bit 
of  paper  that  means  so  much  to  him  and  to 
those  he  is  serving  in  the  capacity  of  a  paid 
agent.  It  will  be  easy  enough  to  do  the  thing 
[355  ] 


FROM     PLACE     TO     PLACE 

there;  whereas  a  meeting  in  any  other  place, 
public  or  private,  might  be  dangerous  for  both 
of  them. 

"Miss  Ballister  will  be  coming  over  from 
Washington  to-morrow.  She  has  a  chair-car 
reservation  on  the  Pennsylvania  train  leaving 
there  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning.  I  don't 
know  what  train  Madame  Ybanca  will  take, 
but  the  news  will  be  coming  to  me  by  wire 
before  she  is  aboard  the  train.  Each  one  of 
them  is  now  being  shadowed;  each  one  of  them 
will  be  shadowed  for  every  moment  while  she  is 
on  her  way  and  during  her  stay  here;  and  of 
course  Geltmann  cannot  stir  a  step  outside  his 
suite  at  the  Hotel  Atminster,  on  Fortieth  Street, 
without  being  under  observation.  He  didn't 
know  it,  but  he  was  under  observation  when  he 
woke  up  yesterday  morning. 

"But  I  think  these  precautions  are  of  mighty 
little  value;  I  do  not  expect  any  important 
result  from  them.  On  the  other  hand,  I  am 
convinced  that  the  transfer  of  the  dispatch  will 
be  attempted  under  your  cousin's  roof.  I  do 
not  need  to  tell  you  why  Geltmann  should  have 
sought  to  insure  the  presence  of  both  women 
here  at  one  time.  He  is  smart  enough;  he 
knows  that  in  this  case  there  is  an  added  ele 
ment  of  safety  for  him  in  numbers — that  it  is 
better  to  have  both  present.  Then  unwittingly 
the  innocent  one  will  serve  as  a  cover  for  the 
guilty  one.  I  think  he  figures  that  should  dis- 
covery  of  the  theft  come  soon — he  not  knowing 
[  356  I  ~~~~ 


HOODWINKED 


it  already  has  come — then  in  such  case  there 
will  be  a  divided  trail  for  us  to  follow,  one  end 
pointing  toward  Miss  Ballister  and  the  other 
toward  the  madame.  Or,  at  least,  so  I  diagnose 
his  mental  processes. 

"If  I  have  diagnosed  them  correctly,  the  big 
part  of  the  job,  Miss  Smith,  is  now  up  to  you. 
We  figure  from  what  she  told  Westerfeltner 
that  the  paper  will  be  concealed  on  the  person 
of  the  woman  we  are  after — in  her  hair  perhaps, 
or  in  her  bosom;  possibly  in  that  favourite 
cache  of  a  woman — her  stocking.  At  any 
rate  she  will  have  it  hidden  about  her;  that 
much  we  may  count  on  for  a  certainty.  And 
so  it  must  be  your  task  to  prevent  that  paper 
from  changing  hands;  better  still,  to  get  it  into 
your  own  possession  before  it  possibly  can  come 
under  Geltmann's  eyes  even  for  a  moment. 
But  there  must  be  no  scene,  no  violence  used, 
no  scandal;  above  all  things  there  must  be  no 
publicity.  Publicity  is  to  be  dreaded  almost  as 
much  as  the  actual  transfer. 

"For  my  part  I  can  promise  you  this:  I  shall 
be  in  the  house  of  your  cousin  to-morrow  night, 
if  you  want  me  to  be  there.  That  detail  we  can 
arrange  through  her;  but  naturally  I  must  stay 
out  of  sight.  You  must  do  your  work  prac 
tically  unaided.  I  guarantee  though  to  insure 
you  plenty  of  time  in  which  to  do  it.  Geltmann 
will  not  reach  the  party  until  later  than  he 
expects.  The  gentleman  will  be  delayed  by 
one  or  a  number  of  annoying  but  seemingly 
„ [857]  ~ 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

unavoidable  accidents.  Beyond  these  points 
I  have  to  confess  myself  helpless.  After  those 
two  women  pass  inside  Mrs.  Hadley-Smith's 
front  door  the  real  job  is  in  your  hands.  You 
must  find  who  has  the  paper  and  you  must  get 
it  away  from  its  present  custodian  without 
making  threats,  without  using  force — in  short, 
without  doing  anything  to  rouse  the  suspicions 
beforehand  of  the  person  we  are  after,  or  to 
make  the  innocent  woman  aware  that  she  is 
under  scrutiny. 

"Above  all,  nothing  must  occur  to  make  any 
of  the  other  guests  realise  that  anything  unusual 
is  afoot.  For  that  would  mean  talk  on  the  out 
side,  and  talk  on  the  outside  means  sensational 
stories  in  the  newspapers.  You  can  make  no 
mistake,  and  yet  for  the  life  of  me  I  cannot  see 
how  you  are  going  to  guard  against  making 
them.  Everything  depends  on  you,  and  that 
everything  means  a  very  great  deal  to  our 
country.  Yes,  everything  depends  on  you, 
because  I  am  at  the  end  of  my  rope." 

He  finished  and  sat  back  in  his  chair,  eyeing 
her  face.  Her  expression  gave  him  no  clew  to 
any  conclusions  she  might  have  reached. 

"I'll  do  my  best,"  she  said  simply,  "but  I 
must  have  full  authority  to  do  it  in  my  own 
way." 

"Agreed.  I'm  not  asking  anything  else  from 
you." 

In  a  study  she  rose  and  went  to  the  mantel- 
piece  and  took  one  book  from  the  heap  of  books 
'" [358] 


HOODWINKED 


there.  She  opened  it  and  glanced  abstractedly 
through  the  leaves  as  they  flittered  under  her 
fingers. 

With  her  eyes  on  the  page  headings  she  said 
to  him :  "I  quarrel  with  one  of  your  premises." 

"Which  one?" 

"The  one  that  the  woman  we  want  will  have 
the  paper  hidden  in  her  hair  or  in  her  corsage  or 
possibly  in  her  stocking." 

"Well,  I  couldn't  think  of  any  other  likely 
place  in  which  she  might  hide  it.  She  wouldn't 
have  it  in  a  pocket,  would  she?  Women  don't 
have  pockets  in  their  party  frocks,  do  they?" 

Disregarding  his  questions  she  asked  one 
herself: 

"You  say  it  is  a  small  strip  of  paper,  and  that 
probably  it  is  rolled  up  into  a  wad  about  the 
size  of  a  hazelnut?" 

"It  was  rolled  up  so  when  Westerfeltner 
parted  from  it — that's  all  I  can  tell  you.  Why 
do  you  ask  that?" 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  particularly  matter.  I  merely 
was  thinking  of  various  possibilities  and  con 
tingencies." 

Apparently  she  now  had  found  the  place  in 
the  book  which,  more  or  less  mechanically,  she 
had  been  seeking.  She  turned  down  the  upper 
corner  of  a  certain  page  for  a  marker  and  closed 
the  book. 

"Well,  in  any  event,"  she  said,  "I  must  get 
to  work.  I  think  I  shall  begin  by  calling  up  my 
cousin  to  tell  her,  among  other  things,  that  her 
[859]  


FROM     PLACE     TO     PLACE 

party  may  have  some  rather  unique  features 
that  she  had  not  included  in  her  program.  And 
where  can  I  reach  you  by  telephone  or  by 
messenger — say,  in  an  hour  from  now?" 

A  number  of  small  things,  seemingly  in  no 
wise  related  to  the  main  issue,  occurred  that 
evening  and  on  the  following  morning.  In  the 
evening,  for  example,  Mrs.  Hadley-Smith  re 
vised  the  schedule  of  amusements  she  had 
planned  for  her  All  Fools'  party,  incorporating 
some  entirely  new  notions  into  the  original 
scheme.  In  the  morning  Miss  Mildred  Smith 
visited  the  handkerchief  counter  of  a  leading 
department  store,  where  she  made  selections 
and  purchases  from  the  stocks,  going  thence  to 
a  shop  dealing  in  harness  and  leather  goods. 
Here  she  gave  a  special  commission  for  imme 
diate  execution. 

Toward  dusk  of  the  evening  of  April  first  a 
smallish  unobtrusive-looking  citizen  procured 
admittance  to  Mrs.  Hadley-Smith 's  home,  on 
East  Sixty-third  Street  just  off  Fifth  Avenue. 
With  the  air  of  a  man  having  business  on  the 
premises  he  walked  through  the  front  door 
along  with  a  group  of  helpers  from  the  caterer's. 
Once  inside,  he  sent  a  name  by  the  butler  to 
Mrs.  Hadley-Smith,  who  apparently  awaited 
such  word,  for  promptly  she  came  downstairs 
and  personally  escorted  the  man  to  a  small 
study  at  the  back  of  the  first  floor;  wherein, 
having  been  left  alone,  he  first  locked  the  door 
leading  to  the  hall  and  drew  the  curtains  of  the 
[360] 


HOODWINKED 


windows  giving  upon  a  rear  courtyard,  and  pro 
ceeded  to  make  himself  quite  at  home. 

He  ate  a  cold  supper  which  he  found  spread 
upon  a  table  and  after  that  he  used  the  tele 
phone  rather  extensively.  This  done,  he  lit  a 
cigar  and  stretched  himself  upon  a  sofa,  smoking 
away  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  has  finished  his 
share  cf  a  given  undertaking  and  may  take  his 
ease  until  the  time  arrives  for  renewed  action 
upon  his  part.  Along  toward  nine-thirty 
o'clock,  when  he  had  smoked  his  third  cigar, 
there  came  a  soft  knock  thrice  repeated  upon 
the  door,  whereupon  he  rose  and  unlocked  the 
door,  but  without  opening  it  to  see  who  might 
be  outside  he  went  back  to  his  couch,  lay  down 
and  lit  a  fourth  cigar.  For  the  next  little  while 
we  may  leave  him  there  to  his  comfortable 
solitude  and  his  smoke  haze. 

Meanwhile  the  Hon.  Sidney  Bertram  Golds- 
borough,  so  called  and  so  registered  at  the 
Hotel  Atminster,  grew  decidedly  peevish  over 
the  unaccountable  failure  of  his  order  to  arrive 
from  a  theatrical  costumer's,  where  he  had 
selected  it  some  three  days  earlier.  He  was 
morally  sure  it  had  been  sent  hours  earlier  by 
special  messenger  from  the  costume  shop.  In 
answer  to  his  vexed  inquiries  the  parcels  depart 
ment  of  the  hotel  was  equally  sure  that  no  box 
or  package  consigned  to  Mr.  Goldsborough  had 
been  received.  Finally,  after  ten  o'clock,  the 
missing  costume  was  brought  to  the  gentleman's 
door  with  a  message  of  profound  regret  from 
[  361  ]  


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

the  assistant  manager,  who  expressed  sorrow 
that  through  the  stupidity  of  some  member  or 
members  of  his  force  a  valued  guest  had  been 
inconvenienced.  Hastily  slipping  into  the  cos 
tume  and  putting  a  light  overcoat  on  over  it 
Mr.  Goldsborough  started  in  a  taxicab  up 
Fifth  Avenue.  But  at  Forty-eighth  Street  a 
government  mail  van,  issuing  suddenly  out  of 
the  sideway,  smashed  squarely  into  the  side  of 
the  taxicab  bearing  him,  with  the  result  that 
the  taxi  lost  a  wheel  and  Mr.  Goldsborough 
lost  another  half  hour. 

This  second  delay  was  due  to  the  fact  that 
his  presence  upon  the  spot  was  required  by  a 
plain-clothes  man  who  took  over  the  investiga 
tion  of  the  collision  from  the  patrolman  on  the 
post.  To  Mr.  Goldsborough,  inwardly  fuming 
but  outwardly  calm  and  indifferent,  it  seemed 
that  the  plain-clothes  person  took  an  unreason 
ably  long  time  for  his  inquiries  touching  on 
the  accident.  At  length,  with  apologies  for 
detaining  him,  the  headquarters  man — now 
suddenly  become  accommodating  where  before 
he  had  been  officially  exact  and  painstaking  in 
his  inquisition  into  causes  and  circumstances — 
personally  hailed  another  taxicab  for  Mr. 
Goldsborough  and  sent  him  upon  his  way. 

But,  Mr.  Goldsborough's  chapter  of  petty 
troubles  was  not  yet  ended ;  for  the  driver  of  the 
second  taxi  stupidly  drove  to  the  wrong  address, 
landing  his  fare  at  a  house  on  West  Sixty-third 

Street,  clear  across  Central  Park  and  nearly 

__  - 


HOODWINKED 


halfway  across  town  from  Mrs.  Hadley-Smith's 
home.  So,  what  with  first  one  thing  and  then 
another,  eleven  o'clock  had  come  and  gone 
before  the  indignant  passenger  finally  was  set 
down  at  his  proper  destination. 

We  go  back  to  nine-thirty,  which  was  the 
hour  set  and  appointed  for  inaugurating  the 
All  Fools'  Day  party.  Nine-thirty  being  the 
hour,  very  few  of  the  prospective  celebrants 
arrived  before  ten.  But  by  ten,  or  a  little  later, 
most  of  them  were  assembled  in  the  big  twin 
drawing-rooms  on  the  first  floor  of  the  Hadley- 
Smith  establishment.  These  two  rooms,  with 
the  study  behind  them  and  the  wide  reception 
hall  that  ran  alongside  them,  took  up  the  most 
of  the  first-floor  ground  space  of  the  town 
house.  As  the  first  arrivals  noted,  they  had 
been  stripped  of  furniture  for  dancing.  One 
room  was  quite  empty,  save  for  decorations; 
the  other  contained  only  a  table  piled  with 
favours.  Even  the  chairs  had  been  removed, 
leaving  clear  spaces  along  the  walls. 

It  was  not  such  a  very  large  party  as  parties 
go,  for  Mrs.  Hadley-Smith  had  a  reputation  for 
doing  her  entertaining  on  a  small  but  an  exceed 
ingly  smart  scale.  All  told,  there  were  not  more 
than  fifty  on  hand — and  accounted  for — by  ten 
o'clock.  A  good  many  had  come  in  costume — 
as  zanies,  Pantaloons,  witches,  Pierrots,  Col 
umbines,  clowns  and  simples.  For  those  who 
wore  evening  dress  the  hostess  had  provided  a 
store  of  dunce  caps  and  dominos  of  gay  colours. 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

Nearly  everybody  present  already  knew  nearly 
everybody  else.  There  were  only  five  or  six 
guests  from  out  of  town,  and  of  these  Mme. 
Josephine  Ybanca,  wife  of  the  great  South 
American  diplomat,  and  Miss  Evelyn  Ballister, 
sister  of  the  distinguished  Western  states 
man,  were  by  odds  the  handsomest.  Of  women 
there  were  more  than  men;  there  usually  are 
more  women  than  men  in  evidence  at  such 
affairs. 

At  about  ten  o'clock,  Mrs.  Hadley-Smith 
stood  out  on  the  floor  under  the  arch  connecting 
but  not  exactly  separating  the  joined  rooms. 

"Listen,  please,  everybody!"  she  called,  and 
the  motley  company,  obeying  the  summons, 
clustered  about  her.  "The  musicians  won't 
be  here  until  midnight.  After  they  have  come 
and  after  we've  had  supper  there  will  be  danc 
ing.  But  until  midnight  we  are  going  to  play 
games — old  games,  such  as  I'm  told  they  played 
in  England  two  hundred  years  ago  on  May  Day 
and  on  All  Fools'  Day  and  on  Halloween. 
There'll  be  no  servants  about  and  no  one  to 
bother  us  and  we'll  have  these  rooms  to  our 
selves  to  do  just  as  we  please  in." 

A  babble  of  politely  enthusiastic  exclama 
tions  rose.  The  good-looking  widow  could 
always  be  depended  upon  to  provide  something 
unusual  when  she  entertained. 

"I've  asked  my  cousin,  Mildred,  to  take 
charge  of  this  part  of  our  party,"  went  on  the 
hostess.  "She  has  been  studying  up  on  the 
[364] 


HOODWINKED 


subject,    I   believe."     She   looked   about   her. 
"Oh,  Mildred,  where  are  you?" 

"Here,"  answered  Miss  Smith,  emerging 
from  a  corner,  pretty  Madame  Ybanca  coming 
with  her.  "Madame  Ybanca  has  on  such  mar 
vellous,  fascinating  old  jewelry  to-night;  I  was 
just  admiring  it.  Are  you  ready  to  start?  " 

"Quite  ready,  if  you  are." 

Crossing  to  the  one  table  in  sight  Miss  Smith 
took  the  party-coloured  cover  from  a  big  square 
cardboard  box.  Seemingly  the  box  was  filled 
to  the  top  with  black  silk  handkerchiefs;  thick, 
heavy  black  handkerchiefs  they  were. 

"As  a  beginning,"  she  announced,  "we  are 
going  to  play  a  new  kind  of  Blind  Man's  Buff. 
That  is  to  say,  it  may  be  new  to  us,  though  some 
of  our  remote  ancestors  no  doubt  played  it  a 
century  or  so  back.  In  the  game  we  played  as 
children  one  person  was  blindfolded  and  was 
spun  about  three  times  and  then  had  to  lay 
hands  upon  one  of  the  others,  all  of  whom  were 
duty  bound  to  stand  where  they  were,  without 
moving  or  speaking — but  you  remember,  I'm 
sure,  all  of  you?  In  this  version  the  rules  are 
different,  as  you'll  see. 

"First  we'll  draw  lots  to  see  who's  going  to 
be  It,  as  we  used  to  say  when  we  were  kiddies. 
Wait  a  minute  though — it  will  take  too  long  to 
choose  from  among  so  many.  I  think  I'll  save 
time  by  finding  a  victim  in  this  little  crowd 
here."  And  she  indicated  ten  or  twelve  who 

chanced  to  be  clustered  at  her  right. 

[  365  ]    


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

"You,  Mr.  Polk,  and  you,  Miss  Vane,  and 
you  and  you  and  you — and,  oh  yes,  I'll  take  in 
Madame  Ybanca  too;  she  makes  an  even 
dozen.  I  shan't  include  myself,  because  I 
rather  think  I  had  better  act  as  referee  and 
general  factotum  until  you  learn  the  game." 

The  chosen  group  faced  her  while  the  others 
pressed  up  in  anticipation.  From  a  pocket  in 
her  red-and-white  clown's  blouse  Miss  Smith 
produced  a  sheaf  of  folded  bits  of  tissue  paper. 

"One  of  these  papers  bears  a  number,"  she 
went  on,  as  she  made  a  selection  of  twelve  slips 
from  the  handful.  "All  the  others  are  blank. 
I  know  which  one  is  marked,  but  no  one  else 
does.  Now  then,  take  a  slip,  each  of  you.  The 
person  who  draws  the  numbered  slip  is  It." 

In  mock  solemnity  each  of  the  selected  twelve 
in  turn  drew  from  between  Miss  Smith's  fingers 
a  colored  scrap. 

"Mine's  a  blank,"  called  out  Miss  Vane, 
opening  her  bit  of  paper. 

"Mine  too." 

"And  mine." 

"And  mine  is." 

"Who  has  it,  then?" 

"I  seem  to  have  drawn  the  fatal  number," 
said  Madame  Ybanca,  holding  up  her  slip  for 
all  to  see  the  markings  on  it. 

"So  you  have,"  agreed  Miss  Smith.     "Now 

then,  everybody  pick  out  a  black  handkerchief 

from  this  box — they're  all  exactly  alike.     Not 

you,   though,   madame.     I'll   have   to  prepare 

~  ~  [366] 


HOODWINKED 


you  for  your  r6le  myself."  So  saying,  she  took 
one  of  the  handkerchiefs  and  folded  it  into  a 
long  flat  strip. 

"Now,  madame,  please  put  your  arms  back 
of  you — so!  You  see,  I'm  going  to  tie  your 
hands  behind  your  back." 

"Oh,  does  everybody  have  to  be  tied?"  de 
manded  Miss  Vane. 

"No,  but  everybody  excepting  the  madame 
must  be  blindfolded,"  stated  Miss  Smith.  "I'll 
explain  in  just  one  minute  when  I'm  done  with 
the  madame  here."  With  fast-moving  fingers 
she  firmly  drew  the  handkerchief  about  the 
young  matron's  crossed  wrists.  Madame 
Ybanca  uttered  a  sharp  little  "Ouch!" 

"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry,"  said  Miss  Smith.  "Am 
I  binding  you  too  tightly?" 

"No,  not  that;  but  I  think  you  are  making 
one  of  my  bracelets  press  into  my  flesh.  It's 
such  a  thick  cumbersome  thing  anyway." 

"Shall  I  slip  it  farther  up  your  arm?"  asked 
Miss  Smith. 

"No,  take  it  off  entirely,  won't  you,  and  keep 
it  for  me?  It  fastens  with  a  little  clasp." 

So  Miss  Smith  undid  the  bracelet,  which  was 
a  band  of  curiously  chased  heavy  gold,  studded 
with  big  bosses  containing  blue  stones,  and 
dropped  it  into  her  handy  blouse  pocket. 

Then  swiftly  she  finished  her  task  of  knotting 
the  handkerchief  ends  and  Madame  Ybanca, 
very  securely  bound,  stood  forth  in  the  midst 
of  a  laughing  ring,  making  a  pretty  and  appeal- 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

ing  picture,  her  face  slightly  flushed  by 
embarrassment. 

"One  thing  more  for  your  adornment  and 
you'll  be  ready,"  promised  Miss  Smith. 

Burrowing  beneath  the  remaining  handker 
chiefs  in  the  box  she  produced  a  collarlike  device 
of  soft  russet  leather,  all  hung  with  fat  silver 
sleigh  bells  which,  being  loosely  sewed  to  the 
fabric  by  means  of  twisted  wire  threads,  jingled 
constantly  and  busily.  The  slightest  move 
ment  set  the  wires  to  quivering  like  antennae 
and  the  bells  to  making  music.  Miss  Smith 
lifted  the  leather  circlet  down  over  Madame 
Ybanca's  head  so  that  it  rested  upon  her 
shoulders,  looping  across  just  below  the  base 
of  the  throat. 

"Take  a  step  forward,"  she  bade  the  madame, 
and  as  the  latter  obeyed,  all  the  bells  tinkled 
together  with  a  constant  merry  clamour. 

"Behold!"  said  Miss  Smith.  "The  lady  of 
the  bells  is  caparisoned  for  her  part.  Now 
then,  let  each  person  blindfold  his  or  her  eyes 
with  the  handkerchief  you  have;  but  take  care 
that  you  are  well  blinded. 

"Oh,  Miss  Ballister,  let  me  adjust  your 
handkerchief,  won't  you?  I'm  afraid  you 
might  disarrange  that  lovely  hair  ornament  of 
yours  unless  you  have  help.  There!  How's 
that!  Can  you  see  anything  at  all?  How 
many  fingers  do  I  hold  up?" 

"Oh,  I'm  utterly  in  the  dark,"  said  Miss 

Ballister.  "I  can't  see  a  thing." 

[  368  ] 


HOODWINKED 


"Are  you  all  hooded?"  called  Miss  Smith. 

A  chorus  of  assents  went  up. 

"Good!  Then  listen  a  moment:  It  will  be 
Madame  Ybanca's  task  to  catch  hold  of  some 
one  of  you  with  her  hands  fastened  as  they  are 
behind  her.  It  is  your  task  to  keep  out  of  her 
way;  the  bells  are  to  warn  you  of  her  approach. 
Whoever  is  caught  takes  her  place  and  becomes 
It. 

Ready— go!" 

Standing  a  moment  as  though  planning  a 
campaign  Madame  Ybanca  made  a  quick  dash 
toward  where  the  others  were  grouped  the 
thickest.  But  her  bells  betrayed  her.  From 
before  her  they  scattered  and  broke  apart, 
stumbling,  groping  with  outstretched  hands  to 
find  the  wall,  jostling  into  one  another,  caroming 
off  again,  whooping  with  laughter.  Fast  as 
Madame  Ybanca  advanced,  the  rest  all  man 
aged  to  evade  her.  She  halted,  laughing  in 
admission  of  the  handicap  upon  her,  when 
before  she  had  been  so  confident  of  a  capture; 
then,  changing  her  tactics,  she  undertook  to 
stalk  down  some  member  of  the  blindfolded 
flock  by  stealthy,  gentle  forward  steps.  But 
softly  though  she  might  advance,  the  telltale 
bells  gave  ample  notice  of  her  whereabouts, 
and  the  troop  fled.  Moreover,  even  when  she 
succeeded — as  she  soon  did — in  herding  some 
one  into  a  corner,  the  prospective  victim,  a  man, 
managed  to  slip  past  her  out  of  danger,  being 
favoured  by  the  fact  that  to  grasp  him  with  one 
" [W] 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

of  her  fettered  hands  she  must  turn  entirely 
about.  So  he  was  able  to  wriggle  out  of  peril 
and  her  clutching  fingers  closed  only  on  empty 
air. 

"It's  not  so  easy  as  it  seemed,"  she  con 
fessed. 

"Keep  trying,"  counselled  the  referee,  keep 
ing  pace  with  her.  Miss  Smith's  eyes  were 
darting  everywhere  at  once,  watching  the 
hooded  figures  keenly,  as  though  to  detect  any 
who  might  seek  to  cheat  by  lifting  his  or  her 
mufflings.  "You're  sure  to  catch  somebody 
presently.  They  can't  dodge  you  every  time, 
you  know." 

So  Madame  Ybanca  tried  again.  Ahead  of 
her  the  fugitives  stampeded,  milling  about  in 
uncertain  circles,  gliding  past  her  along  the 
walls,  fleeing  from  one  room  to  the  other  and 
back  again — singly,  by  pairs  arid  threes.  They 
touched  her  often,  but  by  reason  of  her  ham 
pered  state  she  never  could  touch,  with  her 
hands,  any  of  them  in  their  flight. 

As  Mrs.  Hadley-Smith,  fleeing  alone,  came 
through  the  doorway  with  both  her  arms  out 
stretched  to  fend  off  possible  collisions,  a  sharp 
low  whisper  spoken  right  alongside  of  her  made 
her  halt.  The  whisperer  was  her  cousin. 
Unobserved  by  the  madame  and  unheard  by 
any  one  else,  Miss  Smith  spoke  a  word  or  two  in 
her  cousin's  ear.  The  next  instant  almost  Mrs. 
Hadley-Smith,  apparently  becoming  confused 
as  to  the  direction  from  which  the  sounds  of 
'""  [  370  ]  "  " 


HOODWINKED 


bells  approached,  hesitated  in  indecision  and 
was  fairly  trapped  by  the  pursuer. 

"Who's  caught?  Who's  caught?"  cried  sev 
eral  together. 

"You're  not  supposed  to  know — that  makes 
the  fun  all  the  better,"  cried  Miss  Smith. 
"You  may  halt  a  bit  to  get  your  breath,  but 
nobody  is  to  touch  his  or  her  blindfold." 

"I'm  sure  you  took  pity  on  me  and  let  me  tag 
you,"  said  Madame  Ybanca  in  an  undertone 
to  her  victim  as  Miss  Smith,  deftly  freeing  the 
younger  woman's  hands,  proceeded  to  bind  the 
hostess'  wrists  at  her  back. 

"Not  at  all,"  replied  Mrs.  Hadley-Smith, 
also  under  her  breath.  "I  was  stupid  or  awk 
ward  or  perhaps  both  at  once — that's  all." 

A  moment  later  when  the  collar  of  bells  had 
been  shifted  to  the  new  wearer's  shoulders,  the 
madame,  covering  up  her  own  eyes,  moved 
away  to  join  the  ranks  of  the  blindfolded. 

Before  taking  up  the  chase  Mrs.  Hadley- 
Smith  cast  a  quick  look  toward  her  cousin  and 
the  cousin  replied  with  a  nod  and  a  significant 
glance  toward  a  certain  quarter  of  the  same 
room  in  which  they  stood.  Raising  her  eye 
brows  to  show  she  understood  the  widow 
moved  toward  the  place  that  had  been  indi 
cated.  From  her  path  the  gaily  clad  figures 
retreated,  eddying  and  tacking  in  uncertain 
flight  away  from  the  jingle  of  the  bells. 

Had  any  third  person  there  had  the  use  of  his 
or  her  eyes  that  person  would  have  witnessed 
[371] 


FROM      PLACE     TO      PLACE 

now  a  strange  bit  of  byplay  and — given  a  fair 
share  of  perception — would  have  realised  that 
something  more  important  than  a  petty  triumph 
in  the  playing  of  a  game  was  afoot.  Having 
vision  this  third  person  would  have  seen  how 
Mrs.  Hadley-Smith,  disregarding  easier  chances 
to  make  a  capture,  strove  with  all  her  power  to 
touch  one  particular  chosen  quarry;  would 
have  seen  how  twice,  by  a  quick  twist  of  a 
graceful  young  body,  the  hunted  one  eluded 
those  two  tied  hands  outthrust  to  seize  her; 
how  at  the  third  time  of  trying  the  huntress 
scored  a  victory  and  laid  detaining  hold  upon  a 
fold  of  the  fugitive's  costume;  and  how  at  this 
Miss  Smith,  so  eagerly  watching  the  chase,  gave 
a  gesture  of  assent  and  satisfaction  over  a  thing 
accomplished,  as  she  hurried  toward  the  pair  of 
them  to  render  her  self-appointed  service  upon 
the  winner  and  the  loser. 

But  having  for  the  moment  no  eyes  with 
which  to  see,  no  third  person  there  witnessed 
these  little  interludes  of  stratagem  and  design, 
though  it  was  by  no  means  hard  for  them  to 
sense  that  again  a  coup  had  been  scored.  What 
they  did  not  know  was  that  the  newest  victim 
was  Evelyn  Ballister. 

"Oh,  somebody  else  has  been  nabbed! 
Goody!  Goody!  I'm  glad  I  got  away,"  shouted 
Miss  Vane,  who  was  by  nature  exuberant  and 
of  a  high  spirit.  "I  wonder  who  it  is  now?" 
She  threw  back  her  head,  endeavouring  to  peep 
out  along  her  tilted  nose.  "I  hope  it's  a  man 


HOODWINKED 


this  time.     It's  more  exciting — being  pursued 
by  a  man." 

"Don't  forget — no  one  is  to  look,"  warned 
Miss  Smith  as  keeper  of  the  rules.  "It  would 
spoil  the  sport  if  you  knew  who'll  be  pursuing 
you  next." 

Already  she  had  stripped  the  blindfold  from 
about  Miss  Ballister's  head  and  with  a  quick 
jerk  at  the  master  knot  had  freed  her  cousin 
from  bondage.  With  flirting  motions  she 
twisted  the  folded  kerchief  into  a  rope.  Prac 
tice  in  the  work  seemed  to  have  given  to  her 
added  deftness  and  speed,  for  in  no  more  time 
than  it  takes  to  tell  of  it  she  had  drawn  Miss 
Ballister's  smooth  arms  round  behind  their 
owner's  back  and  was  busied  at  the  next  step  of 
her  offices.  Almost  it  seemed  the  girl  surren 
dered  reluctantly,  as  though  she  were  loath  to 
go  through  with  the  role  that  had  fallen  to  her 
by  penalty  of  being  tagged.  But  if  Miss  Smith 
felt  unwillingness  in  the  sudden  rebellious  tens 
ing  of  the  limbs  she  touched,  the  only  response 
on  her  part  was  an  added  quickness  in  her 
fingers  as  she  placed  one  veined  wrist  upon  the 
other  and  with  double  wraps  made  them  snugly 
fast. 

"It  hurts — it  pinches!  You've  bound  me 
too  tightly,"  murmured  the  prisoner,  as  in 
voluntarily  she  strained  against  the  pull  of  the 
trussings. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry,"  whispered  Miss  Smith. 

"I'll  ease  you  in  just  a  second."     But  despite 

___. __       __ 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

her  promise  she  made  no  immediate  move  to  do 
so.  Instead  she  concerned  herself  with  lifting 
the  collaret  of  bells  off  over  Mrs.  Hadley- 
Smith's  head  and  bestowing  it  upon  the  rounded 
shoulders  of  the  girl.  As  she  brought  the  jing 
ling  harness  down  in  its  place  her  hands  lingered 
for  one  fleeting  space  where  a  heavy,  quaint, 
old-fashioned  gold  locket — an  heirloom  that 
might  have  come  down  from  a  grandmother's 
days — was  dangling  from  a  gold  chain  that 
encircled  the  girl's  neck.  Apparently  she 
caught  a  finger  in  the  chain  and  before  she 
could  free  it  she  had  given  a  sharp  tug  at  the 
chain,  thereby  lifting  the  locket  from  where  it 
rested  against  the  white  flesh  of  its  wearer's 
throat. 

"I — I'm  afraid  I  can't  play,"  Miss  Ballister 
almost  gasped  out  the  words;  then  drawing  in 
her  breath  with  a  sharp  catch:  "This  room — 
it's  so  warm.  I  feel  a  bit  faint,  really  I  do. 
Please  untie  me.  I  shan't  be  able  to  go  on." 
Her  voice,  though  pitched  still  in  a  low  key,  was 
sharpened  with  a  nervous  entreaty. 

"I  will  of  course  if  you  really  do  feel  badly," 
said  Miss  Smith.  Then  an  inspiration  seemed 
to  come  to  her.  Her  eyes  sparkled. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "I've  a  beautiful  idea! 
We'll  play  an  April  Fools'  joke  on  them. 
We'll  make  them  all  think  you  still  are  here 
and  while  they're  dodging  about  trying  to  keep 
away  from  you  we'll  slip  away  together  and  b 
at  the  other  end  of  the  house."  By  a  gestuiv 


HOODWINKED 


of  one  hand  and  with  a  finger  of  the  other  across 
her  lips  to  impress  the  need  of  secrecy,  she 
brought  Mrs.  Hadley-Smith  into  the  little 
conspiracy. 

"Don't  blindfold  yourself,  Claire,"  she  whis 
pered.  "You  must  help  Miss  Ballister  and  me 
to  play  a  joke  on  the  others.  You  are  to  keep 
the  bells  rattling  after  we  are  gone.  See?  This 
way." 

With  that  she  shifted  the  leathern  loop  from 
about  Miss  Ballister's  neck  and  replaced  it  over 
Mrs.  Hadley-Smith'shead  which  bent  forward  to 
receive  it.  Smiling  in  appreciation  of  the  pro 
posed  hoax  the  widow  took  a  step  or  two. 

"Watch!"  whispered  Miss  Smith  in  Miss 
Ballister's  ear.  "See  how  well  the  trick  works. 
There — what  did  I  tell  you?" 

For  instantly  all  the  players,  deceived  by  the 
artifice,  were  falling  back,  huddling  away  from 
the  fancied  danger  zone  as  Mrs.  Hadley-Smith 
went  toward  them.  In  the  same  instant  Miss 
Smith  silently  had  opened  the  nearest  door  and, 
beckoning  to  Miss  Ballister  to  follow  her,  was 
tiptoeing  softly  out  into  the  empty  hall.  The 
door  closed  gently  behind  them. 

Miss  Ballister  laughed  a  forced  little  laugh. 
She  turned,  presenting  her  back  to  Miss  Smith. 

"Now  untie  me,  please  do."  In  her  eager 
ness  to  be  free  she  panted  out  the  words. 

"Surely,"  agreed  Miss  Smith.     "But  I  think 

we  should  get  entirely  away,  out  of  sight,  before 

the  bells  stop  ringing  and  the  hoax  begins  to 

[«75]       " ' 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

dawn  on  them.  There's  a  little  study  right 
here  at  the  end  of  the  hall.  Shall  we  go  there 
and  hide  from  them?  I'll  relieve  you  of  that 
handkerchief  then." 

"Yes,  yes;  but  quickly,  please!"  Miss 
Ballister's  note  was  insistent;  you  might  call  it 
pleading,  certainly  it  was  agitated.  "Being 
tied  this  way  gives  one  such  a  trapped  sort  of 
feeling — it's  horrid,  really  it  is.  I'll  never  let 
any  one  tie  my  hands  again  so  long  as  I  live. 
It's  enough  to  give  one  hysterics — honestly  it  is. 

"I  understand.     Come  on,  then." 

With  one  hand  slipped  inside  the  curve  of 
the  other's  elbow  Miss  Smith  hurried  her  to  the 
study  door  masked  beneath  the  broad  stairs, 
and  opening  it,  ushered  her  into  the  inner  room. 

It  contained  an  occupant:  a  smallish  man 
with  mild-looking  gray  eyes,  who  at  their 
entrance  rose  up  from  where  he  sat,  staring 
steadily  at  them.  At  sight  of  the  unexpected 
stranger  Miss  Ballister  halted.  She  uttered  a 
shocked  little  exclamation  and  recoiled,  pulling 
away  from  her  escort  as  though  she  meant  to 
flee  back  across  the  threshold.  But  her  shoul 
ders  came  against  the  solid  panels. 

The  door  so  soon  had  been  shut  behind  her, 
cutting  off  retreat. 

"Well?"  said  the  stranger. 

Miss  Smith  stood  away  from  the  shrinking 
figure,  leaving  it  quite  alone. 

"This  is  the  woman/'  she  said,  and  suddenly 
[376]  ~  '    ' 


HOODWINKED 


her  voice  was  accusing  and  hard.  "The  stolen 
paper  is  in  that  necklace  she  is  wearing  round 
her  neck." 

For  proof  of  the  truth  of  the  charge  Mullinix 
had  only  to  look  into  their  captive's  face.  Her 
first  little  fit  of  distress  coming  on  her  so  sud 
denly  while  she  was  being  bound  had  made  her 
pale.  Now  her  pallor  was  ghastly.  Little 
blemishes  under  the  skin  stood  out  in  blotches 
against  its  dead  white,  and  out  of  the  mask  her 
eyes  glared  in  a  dumb  terror.  She  made  no 
outcry,  but  her  lips,  stiff  with  fright,  twisted  to 
form  words  that  would  not  come.  Her  shoul 
ders  heaved  as — futilely — she  strove  to  wrench 
her  arms  free.  Then  quickly  her  head  sank 
forward  and  her  knees  began  to  bend  under  her. 

"Mind — she's  going  to  faint!"  warned  Mulli 
nix. 

Both  of  them  sprang  forward  and  together 
they  eased  the  limp  shape  down  upon  the  rug. 
She  lay  there  at  their  feet,  a  pitiable  little 
bundle.  But  there  was  no  compassion,  no 
mercifulness  in  their  faces  as  they  looked  down 
at  her. 

Alongside  the  slumped  form  Miss  Smith 
knelt  down  and  felt  for  the  clasp  of  the  slender 
chain  and  undid  it.  She  pressed  the  catch  of 
the  locket  and  opened  it,  and  from  the  small 
receptacle  revealed  within,  where  a  miniature 
might  once  have  been,  she  took  forth  a  tightly 
folded  half  sheet  of  yellow  parchment  paper, 
' —  [377]  ~ "" 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

which  had  it  been  wadded  into  a  ball  would  have 
made  a  sphere  about  the  size  of  the  kernel  of  a 
fair-sized  filbert. 

Mullinix  grasped  it  eagerly,  pressed  it  out 
flat  and  took  one  glance  at  the  familiar  signa 
ture,  written  below  the  close-set  array  of  seem 
ingly  meaningless  and  unrelated  letters. 

"You  win,  young  lady,"  he  said,  and  there 
was  thanksgiving  and  congratulation  in  the 
way  he  said  it.  "But  how  did  you  do  it? 
How  was  it  done?" 

She  looked  up  from  where  she  was  casting  off 
the  binding  about  the  relaxed  hands  of  the 
unconscious  culprit. 

"It  wasn't  hard — after  the  hints  you  gave 
me.  I  made  up  my  mind  yesterday  that  the 
paper  would  probably  be  hidden  in  a  piece  of 
jewelry — in  a  bracelet  or  under  the  setting  of  a 
ring  possibly;  or  in  a  hair  ornament  possibly; 
and  I  followed  that  theory.  Two  tests  that  I 
made  convinced  me  that  Madame  Ybanca  was 
innocent;  they  quite  eliminated  Madame 
Ybanca  from  the  equation.  So  I  centred  my 
efforts  on  this  girl  and  she  betrayed  herself  soon 
enough." 

"Betrayed  herself,  how?" 

"An  individual  who  has  been  temporarily 
deprived  of  sight  will  involuntarily  keep  his  or 
her  hands  upon  any  precious  object  that  is  con 
cealed  about  the  person — I  suppose  you  know 
that.  And  as  I  watched  her  after  I  had  blind- 

folded  her " 

[378] 


HOODWINKED 


"After  you  had  what?" 

"Blindfolded  her.  Oh,  I  kept  my  promise," 
she  added,  reading  the  expression  on  his  face. 
"There  was  no  force  used,  and  no  violence. 
She  suffered  herself  to  be  blindfolded — indeed, 
I  did  the  blinding  myself.  Well,  after  she  had 
been  blindfolded  with  a  thick  silk  handkerchief 
I  watched  her,  and  I  saw  that  while  with  one 
hand  she  groped  her  way  about,  she  kept  the 
other  hand  constantly  clutched  upon  this  locket, 
as  though  to  make  sure  of  the  safety  of  some 
thing  there.  So  then  I  was  sure;  but  I  was 
made  doubly  sure  by  her  actions  while  I  was 
tying  her  hands  behind  her.  And  then,  after  I 
had  her  tied  and  helpless,  I  could  experiment 
further — and  I  did — and  again  my  experiment 
convinced  me  I  was  on  the  right  track." 

"Yes — but  tying  her  hands — didn't  she  resist 
that?" 

"No;  you  see,  she  let  me  tie  her  hands  too. 
It  was  a  part  of  a  game.  They  all  played  it." 

"Some  of  the  others  were  blinded,  eh?" 

"All  of  them  were;  every  single  one  of  them 
was.  They  still  are,  I  imagine,  providing  my 
cousin  is  doing  her  part — and  I  am  sure  she  is. 
There'll  be  no  suspicion  of  the  truth,  even  after 
their  eyes  are  unhooded.  Claire  has  her  ex 
planations  all  ready.  They'll  miss  this  girl  of 
course  and  wonder  what  has  become  of  her, 
but  the  explanation  provides  for  that:  She  was 
taken  with  a  sudden  indisposition  and  slipped 
away  with  me,  not  wishing  to  spoil  the  fun  by 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

staying  on  after  she  began  to  feel  badly. 
That's  the  story  they'll  be  told,  and  there's  no 
reason  why  they  shouldn't  accept  it  as  valid 
either.  See!  She's  coming  to." 

"Then  I'll  get  out  and  leave  you  to  attend  to 
her.  Keep  her  here  in  this  room  until  she's 
better,  and  then  you  may  send  her  back  to  her 
hotel.  You  might  tell  her  that  there  is  to  be  no 
prosecution  and  no  unpleasant  notoriety  for  her 
if  only  she  keeps  her  mouth  shut  about  all  that's 
happened.  Probably  she'll  be  only  too  glad  to 
do  that,  for  I  figure  she  has  learned  a  lesson." 

"You  won't  want  to  question  her,  then,  after 
she  has  been  revived?  " 

"It's  quite  unnecessary.  I  have  the  other 
ends  of  the  case  in  my  hands.  And  besides  I 
must  go  outside  to  meet  our  dear  friend  Gelt- 
mann  when  he  arrives.  He  should  be  driving 
up  to  the  housL  pretty  soon — I  had  a  telephone 
message  five  minutes  ago  telling  me  to  expect 
him  shortly.  So  I'm  going  out  to  break  some 
sad  news  to  him  on  the  sidewalk.  He  doesn't 
know  it  yet,  but  he's  starting  to-night  on  a  long, 
long  trip;  a  trip  that  will  take  him  clear  out  of 
this  country — and  he  won't  ever,  ever  be  com 
ing  back. 

"But  I'll  call  on  you  to-morrow,  if  I  may — 
after  I've  seen  to  getting  him  off  for  the  West. 
I  want  to  thank  you  again  in  behalf  of  the  Ser 
vice  for  the  wonderful  thing  you've  done  so 
wonderfully  well.  And  I  want  to  hear  more 
from  you  about  that  game  you  played." 


HOODWINKED 


"I'll  do  better  than  that,"  she  promised: 
"I'll  let  you  read  about  it  in  a  book — an  old 
secondhand  book,  it  is;  you  saw  it  yesterday. 
Maybe  I  can  convert  you  to  reading  old  books; 
they're  often  full  of  things  that  people  in  your 
line  should  know." 

"Lady,"  he  said  reverently,  "you've  made  a 
true  believer  of  me  already." 


[381] 


CHAPTER  IX 
THE  BULL  CALLED  EMILY 


"W*  "IT  T'E  were  sitting  at  a  corner  table  in 
%  /%  /  a  certain  small  restaurant  hard  by 
V  V  where  Sixth  Avenue's  L  structure, 
like  an  overgrown  straddlebug,  wades 
through  the  restless  currents  of  Broadway  at 
a  sharpened  angle.  The  dish  upon  which  we 
principally  dined  was  called  on  the  menu 
Chicken  a  la  Marengo-  We  knew  why. 
Marengo,  by  all  accounts,  was  a  mighty  tough 
battle,  and  this  particular  chicken,  we  judged, 
had  never  had  any  refining  influences  in  its  ill- 
spent  life.  From  its  present  defiant  attitude 
in  a  cooked  form  we  figured  it  had  pipped  the 
shell  with  a  burglar's  jimmy  and  joined  the 
Dominecker  Kid's  gang  before  it  shed  its  pin- 
feathers.  There  were  two  of  us  engaged  in  the 
fruitless  attack  upon  its  sinewy  tissues — the 
present  writer  and  his  old  un-law-abiding  friend, 
— Scandalous  Doolan. 

For  a  period  of  minutes  Scandalous  wrestled 
with  the  thews  of  one  of  the  embattled  fowl's 
knee-joints.  After  a  struggle  in  which  the 
"  ~  [382]  


THE     BULL     CALLED     EMILY 

honours  stood  practically  even,  he  laid  down  his 
knife  and  flirted  a  thumb  toward  a  bottle  of  pep 
pery  sauce  which  stood  on  my  side  of  the  table. 

"Hey,  bo,"  he  requested,  "pass  the  liniment, 
will  you?  This  sea  gull's  got  the  rheumatism." 

The  purport  of  the  remark,  taken  in  con 
nection  with  the  gesture  which  accompanied  it, 
was  plain  enough  to  my  understanding;  but 
for  the  nonce  I  could  not  classify  the  idiom  in 
which  Scandalous  couched  his  request.  It 
could  not  be  Underworld  jargon;  it  was  too 
direct  and  at  the  same  time  too  picturesque. 
Moreover,  the  Underworld,  as  a  rule,  concerns 
itself  only  with  altering  such  words  and  such 
expressions  as  strictly  figure  in  the  business 
affairs  of  its  various  crafts  and  pursuits.  Nor 
to  me  did  it  sound  like  the  language  of  the 
circus-lot,  for  in  such  case  it  probably  would 
have  been  more  complex.  So  by  process  of 
elimination  I  decided  it  was  of  the  slang  code  of 
the  burlesque  and  vaudeville  stage,  with  which, 
as  with  the  other  two,  Scandalous  had  a 
thorough  acquaintance.  I  felt  sure,  then,  that 
something  had  set  his  mind  to  working  back 
ward  along  the  memory-grooves  of  some  one  or 
another  of  his  earlier  experiences  in  the  act- 
producing  line  of  endeavour,  and  that,  with 
proper  pumping,  a  story  might  be  forthcoming. 
As  it  turned  out,  I  was  right. 

"Where  did  you  get  that  one,  Scandalous?" 
I  asked  craftily.  "Your  own  coinage,  or  did 
you  borrow  it  from  somebody  else?" 

[  383  ] ~ 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

He  only  grinned  cryptically.  After  a  bit  he 
hailed  the  attendant  waiter,  who  because  he 
plainly  suffered  from  fallen  arches  had  already 
been  rechristened  by  Scandalous  as  Battling 
Insteps. 

"Say,  Battling,"  he  said,  "take  away  the 
emu;  he's  still  the  undefeated  champion  of  the 
ages.  Tidy  him  up  a  little  and  serve  him  to 
the  next  guy  that  feels  like  he  needs  exercise 
more'n  he  does  nourishment.  The  gravy  may 
be  mussed  up  a  trifle,  but  the  old  ring-general 
ain't  lost  an  ounce.  I  fought  him  three  rounds 
and  didn't  put  a  bruise  on  him." 

"Couldn't  I  bring  you  somethin'  else?"  said 
the  waiter.  "The  Wiener  Schnitzel  with 
noodles  is  very " 

"Nix,"  said  Scandalous;  "if  the  cassowary 
licked  us,  what  chance  would  we  stand  against 
the  bison?  That'll  be  all  for  the  olio;  I'll  go 
right  into  the  after-show  now.  Slip  me  a  dipper 
of  straight  chicory  and  one  of  those  Flor  de 
Boiled  Dinners,  and  then  you  can  break  the 
bad  news  to  my  pal  here."  By  this  I  knew  he 
meant  that  he  craved  a  cup  of  black  coffee  and 
one  of  the  domestic  cigars  to  which  he  was 
addicted,  and  that  I  could  pay  the  check. 

He  turned  to  me: 

"How're  you  goin'  to  finish  your  turn?"  he 
asked.  "They've  got  mince  pie  here  like 
Mother  Emma  Goldman  used  to  make.  Only 
you  want  to  be  careful  it  don't  explode  in  your 

hand." 

[884]  


THE      BULL     CALLED     EMILY 

I  shook  my  head.  "I'll  nibble  at  these,"  I 
said,  "until  you  get  through."  And  I  reached 
for  a  little  saucer  of  salted  peanuts  that  lurked 
in  the  shadow  of  the  bowl  containing  the  olives 
and  the  celery.  For  this,  you  should  know, 
was  a  table  d'hote  establishment,  and  no  such 
place  is  complete  without  its  drowned  olives 
and  its  wilted  celery. 

"Speaking  of  peanuts,"  he  said,  "I  don't 
seem  to  care  deeply  for  such.  I  lost  my  taste 
for  them  dainties  quite  some  time  back." 

"What  was  the  occasion?"  I  prompted,  for 
I  saw  the  light  of  reminiscence  smouldering  in  his 
eye. 

"It  wasn't  no  occasion,"  he  said;  "it  was  a 
catastrophe.  Did  I  ever  happen  to  tell  you 
about  the  time  I  furnished  the  financial  backing 
for  Windy  Jordan  and  his  educated  bull,  and 
what  happened  when  the  blow-off  came?" 

I  shook  my  head  and  in  silence  hearkened. 

"It  makes  quite  an  earful,"  he  continued. 
"  Business  for  gents  in  my  profession  was  very 
punk  here  on  the  Main  Stem  that  season.  By 
reason  of  the  dishonest  police  it  was  mighty 
hard  for  an  honest  grafter  to  make  a  living.  It 
certainly  was  depressing  to  trim  an  Ezra  for  his 
roll  and  then  have  to  cut  up  the  net  proceeds 
with  so  many  central-office  guys  that  you  had 
to  go  back  and  borrow  car-fare  from  the  sucker 
to  get  home  on.  Besides,  I  was  somewhat 
lonely  and  low  in  my  peace  of  mind  on  account 
of  my  regular  side-kick  the  Sweet  Caps  Kid 
[385]  ~"™ 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

being  in  the  hospital.  He'd  made  the  grievous 
mistake  of  trying  to  sell  a  half-interest  in  the 
Aquarium  to  a  visiting  Swede.  Right  in  the 
middle  of  the  negotiations  something  came  up 
that  made  the  Swede  doubtful  that  all  was  not 
well,  and  he  betrayed  his  increasing  misgivings 
by  hauling  out  a  set  of  old-fashioned  genuine 
antique  brass  knucks  and  nicking  up  Sweet 
Caps'  scalp  to  such  an  extent  my  unfortunate 
companion  had  to  spend  three  weeks  on  the 
flat  of  his  back  in  the  casualty  ward,  with  a 
couple  of  doctors  coming  in  every  morning  to 
replace  the  divots.  Pending  his  recovery,  I 
was  sort  of  figuring  on  visiting  Antioch,  Gilead, 
Zion  and  other  religious  towns  up  State  with  a 
view  of  selling  the  haymakers  some  Bermuda 
oats  for  their  fall  planting,  when  along  came 
Windy  Jordan  and  broached  a  proposition. 

"This  here  Windy  Jordan  was  one  of  them 
human  draughts;  hence  the  name.  At  all  hours 
there  was  a  strong  breeze  blowing  out  of  him  in 
the  form  of  words.  If  he  wasn't  conversing,  it 
was  a  sign  he  had  acute  sore  throat.  But  to 
counteract  that  fault  he  was  the  sole  proprietor 
of  the  smartest  and  the  largest  bull  on  this  side 
of  the  ocean,  which  said  bull  answered  to  the 
name  of  Emily." 

"Did  you  say  a  bull?"  I  asked. 

"Sure  I  said  a  bull.  Why  not?  Ain't  you 
wise  to  what  a  bull  is?" 

"Certainly I  am,but  a  bull  named  Emily " 

"Listen,   little   one:     To   them   that   follow 


THE     BULL     CALLED     EMILY 

after  tlie  red  wagon  and  the  white  top,  all  ele 
phants  is  bulls,  disregardless  of  genders,  just 
the  same  as  all  regular  bulls  is  he-cows  to  refined 
maiden  ladies  residin'  in  New  England  and 
points  adjacent.  Only,  show-people  ain't  got 
any  false  modesty  that  way.  In  the  show- 
business  a  bull  is  a  bull,  whether  it's  a  lady-bull 
or  a  gentleman-bull.  So  very  properly  this 
here  bull,  being  one  of  the  most  refined  and 
cultured  members  of  her  sex,  answers  to  the 
Christian  name  of  Emily. 

"Well,  this  Emily  is  not  only  the  joy  and  the 
pride  of  Windy  Jordan's  life,  but  she's  his  entire 
available  assets.  Bull  and  bulline,  she'd  been 
with  him  from  early  childhood.  In  fact,  Windy 
was  the  only  parent  Emily  ever  knew,  she  hav 
ing  been  left  a  helpless  orphan  on  account  of  a 
railroad  wreck  to  the  old  Van  Orten  shows  back 
yonder  in  eighteen-eighty-something.  So 
Windy,  he  took  her  as  a  prattling  infant  in  arms 
when  she  didn't  weigh  an  ounce  over  a  ton  and 
a  half,  and  he  adopted  her  and  educated  her 
and  pampered  her  and  treated  her  as  a  member 
of  his  own  famity,  only  better,  until  she  repaid 
him  by  becoming  not  only  the  largest  bull  in 
the  business  but  the  most  highly  cultivated. 

"  Emily  knew  nearly  everything  there  was  to 
know,  and  what  she  didn't  know  she  suspected 
very  strongly.  Likewise,  as  I  came  to  find  out 
later,  she  was  extremely  grateful  for  small 
favours  and  most  affectionate  by  nature.  To 
be  sure,  being  affectionate  with  a  bull  about  the 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

size  and  general  specifications  of  a  furniture- 
car  had  its  drawbacks.  She  was  liable  to  lean 
up  against  you  in  a  playful,  kittenish  kind  of  a 
way,  and  cave  in  most  of  your  ribs.  It  was 
like  having  a  violent  flirtation  with  a  landslide 
to  venture  up  clost  to  Emily  when  she  was  in  one 
of  her  tomboy  moods.  I've  know'  her  to  nudge 
a  friend  with  one  of  her  front  elbows  and  put 
both  his  shoulder-blades  out  of  socket.  But 
she  never  meant  no  harm  by  it,  never.  It  was 
just  a  little  way  she  had. 

"It  seems  like  Windy  and  Emily  were  aiming 
to  join  out  that  season  with  a  tent-show,  but 
the  deal  fell  through  some  way,  and  for  the 
past  few  weeks  Windy  had  been  infesting  a 
lodging-house  for  members  of  the  profession 
over  here  on  East  Eleventh  Street,  and  Emily 
had  been  in  a  livery  barn  down  in  Greenwich 
Village,  just  naturally  eating  her  old  India- 
rubber  head  off.  Windy,  having  run  low  as  to 
coin,  wasn't  able  to  pay  up  Emily's  back  board, 
and  the  liveryman  was  holding  her  for  the  bill. 

"So,  hearing  some  way  that  I'm  fairly  well 
upholstered  with  currency,  he  comes  to  me  and 
suggests  that  if  I'll  dig  up  what's  necessary  to 
get  Emily  out  of  hock,  he  can  snare  a  line  of 
bookings  in  vaudeville,  and  we'll  all  three  go 
out  on  the  two-a-day  together,  him  as  trainer 
and  me  as  manager  and  Emily  as  the  principal 
attraction.  The  proceeds  is  to  be  cut  up  fifty- 
fifty  as  between  me  and  him. 

"The  notion  don't  sound  like  such  a  bad  one. 


THE      BULL     CALLED     E  M  I  L  Y 

That  was  back  in  the  days  when  refined  vaude 
ville  was  running  very  strongly  to  trained- 
animal  acts  and  leading  ladies  that  had  quit 
leading  but  hadn't  found  out  about  it  yet. 
Nowadays  them  ex-queens  of  tragedy  can  go 
into  the  movies  and  draw  down  so  much  money 
that  if  they  only  get  half  as  much  as  they  say 
they're  getting,  they're  getting  almost  twice  as 
much  as  anybody  would  give  'em;  but  them 
times,  vaudeville  was  their  one  best  bet.  And 
next  to  emotional  actrines  who  could  emosh 
twicet  daily  for  twenty  minutes  on  a  stretch, 
without  giving  way  anywhere,  a  good  trained- 
animal  turn  had  the  call.  It  might  be  a  troupe 
of  educated  Potomac  shad  or  an  educated  ape 
or  a  city-broke  Gila  monster  or  a  talking  horse 
or  what  not.  In  our  case  'twas  Emily,  the  bull. 
"First  thing,  we  goes  down  to  the  livery- 
stable  where  Emily  is  spending  the  Indian 
summer  and  consuming  half  her  weight  in  dry 
provender  every  twenty-four  hours.  The  pro 
prietor  of  this  here  fodder-emporium  is  named 
McGuire,  and  when  I  tells  him  I'm  there  to 
settle  Emily's  account  in  full,  he  carries  on  as 
though  entirely  overcome  by  joyfulness — not 
that  he's  got  any  grudge  against  Emily,  under 
stand,  but  for  other  good  and  abundant  suffi 
ciencies.  He  states  that  so  far  as  Emily's 
personal  conduct  is  concerned,  during  her 
enforced  sojourn  in  his  midst,  she's  always 
deported  herself  like  a  perfect  lady.  But  she 
takes  up  an  awful  lot  of  room,  and  one  of  the 
-_  [389]  ~~ 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

hands  is  now  on  the  verge  of  nervous  prostra 
tion  from  overexertions  incurred  in  packing 
hay  to  her,  and  it  seems  she's  addicted  to  night 
mares.  She  gets  to  dreaming  that  a  mouse 
nearly  an  inch  and  a  half  long  is  after  her, — 
all  bulls  is  terrible  afraid,  you  know,  that  some 
day  a  mouse  is  going  to  come  along  and  eat 
'em, — and  when  she  has  them  kind  of  delusions, 
she  cries  out  in  her  sleep  and  tosses  around  and 
maybe  knocks  down  a  couple  of  steel  beams  or 
busts  in  a  row  of  box-stalls  or  something  trivial 
like  that.  Then,  right  on  top  of  them  petty 
annoyances,  McGuire  some  days  previous  has 
made  the  mistake  of  feeding  Emily  peanuts, 
which  peanuts,  as  he  then  finds  out,  is  her 
favourite  tidbit. 

"'Gents,'  says  McGuire  to  me  and  Windy 
Jordan,  'I  shore  did  make  the  error  of  my  life 
when  I  done  that  act  of  kindness.  I  merely 
meant  them  peanuts  as  a  special  treat,  but 
Emily  figures  it  out  that  they're  the  start  of  a 
fixed  habit,'  he  says.  'Ever  since  then,  if  I 
forget  to  bring  her  in  her  one  five-cent  bag  of 
peanuts  per  diem,  per  day,  she  calls  personally 
to  inquire  into  the  oversight.  She  waits  very 
patient  and  ladylike  until  about  eleven  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  and  if  I  ain't  made  good  by 
then,  she  just  pulls  up  her  leg  hobble  by  the 
roots  and  drops  in  on  me  to  find  out  what's  the 
meaning  of  the  delay. 

"'She  ain't  never  rough  nor  overbearing,  but 
it  interferes  with  trade  for  me  to  be  sitting  here 
[390]  


THE      BULL      CALLED      EMILY 

in  my  office  at  the  front  of  the  stable  talking 
business  with  somebody,  and  all  of  a  sudden 
the  front  half  of  the  largest  East  Indian  elephant 
in  the  world  shoves  three  or  four  thousand 
pounds  of  herself  in  at  that  side  door  and  begins 
waving  her  trunk  around  in  the  air,  meanwhile 
uttering  fretful,  complaining  sounds.  I've  lost 
two  or  three  customers  that  way,'  he  says. 
'They  get  right  up  and  go  away  sudden/  he 
says,  'and  they  don't  never  come  back  no  more, 
not  even  for  their  hats  and  umbrellas.  They 
send  for  'em. 

"'That  ain't  the  worst  of  it,'  he  says.  'Yes 
terday,'  he  says,  'I  rented  out  my  whole  string 
of  coaches  and  teams  for  a  burial  turnout  over 
here  on  McDougal  Street.  Being  as  it's  a  big 
occasion,  I'm  driving  the  first  carriage  con 
taining  the  sorrowing  family  of  deceased. 
Naturally,  with  a  job  like  that  on  my  hands,  I 
don't  think  about  Emily  at  all;  my  mind's  all 
occupied  up  with  making  the  affair  pass  off  in  a 
tasty  and  pleasant  fashion  for  all  concerned. 
Well,  the  cortege  is  just  leaving  the  late  resi 
dence  of  the  remainders,  when  around  the  corner 
comes  bulging  Emily,  followed  at  a  suitable  dis 
tance  by  eight  or  nine  thousand  of  the  populace. 
She's  missed  me,  and  she  wants  her  peanuts, 
and  she's  been  trailing  me;  and  now,  by  heck, 
she's  found  me. 

"Emily  gives  a  loud,  glad  snort  of  recog 
nition,  wheels  herself  around  and  then  falls  in 
alongside  the  front  hack  and  gets  ready  to 
[391] 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

accompany  us,  all  the  time  poking  her  snout 
over  at  me  and  uttering  plaintive  remarks  in 
East  Indian  to  me.  Gents,'  he  says,  'you  can 
see  for  yourselves,  a  thing  like  that,  occurring 
right  at  the  beginning  of  a  funeral  procession, 
is  calculated  to  distract  popular  attention  away 
from  the  main  attraction.  Under  the  circum 
stances  I  wouldn't  blame  no  corpse  on  earth  for 
feeling  jealous — let  alone  a  popular  and  promi 
nent  corpse  like  this  here  one  was,  a  party  that 
had  been  a  district  leader  at  Tammany  Hall  in 
his  day,  and  after  that  the  owner  of  the  most 
fashionable  retail  liquor  store  in  the  entire 
neighbourhood, 'and  who's  now  riding  along  with 
solid  silver  handles  up  and  down  both  sides, 
and  style  just  wrote  all  over  him.  Here,  with 
an  utter  disregard  for  expense,  he's  putting  on 
all  this  dog  for  his  last  public  appearance,  and 
a  strange  elephant  comes  along  and  grabs  the 
show  right  away  from  him. 

"'The  bereaved  family  don't  care  for  it, 
neither.  I  gathers  as  much  from  the  remarks 
they're  making  out  of  the  windows  of  the  coach. 
But  Emily  just  won't  take  a  hint.  She  sticks 
along  until  I  stops  the  procession  and  goes  in 
a  guinea  fruitstore  on  the  next  block  and  buys 
her  a  bag  of  peanuts.  That's  all  she  wants. 
She  takes  it,  and  she  leaves  us  and  goes  on  back 
to  the  stable. 

"But,  as  the  feller  says,  it  practically  ruined 
the  entire  day  for  them  berefts.  I  lost  their 
patronage  right  there — and  them  a  nice  sickly 


THE     BULL     CALLED     EMILY 

family,  too.  A  lot  of  the  friends  and  relatives 
also  resented  it;  they  were  telling  me  so  all  the 
way  back  from  the  cemet'ry.  There  ain't  no 
real  harm  in  Emily,  and  I've  got  powerfully 
attached  to  her,  but  taking  one  thing  with 
another,  I  ain't  regretting  none  that  you've 
come  down  all  organised  financially  to  take 
her  out  of  pawn.  You  have  my  best  wishes, 
and  so  has  she.' 

"So  we  settles  up  the  account  to  date,  which 
the  same  makes  quite  a  nick  in  the  bank-roll, 
and  then  we  goes  back  to  the  rear  of  the  stable 
where  Emily  is  quartered,  and  she  falls  on 
Windy 's  neck,  mighty  nigh  dislocating  it,  and 
he  introduces  me  to  Emily,  and  we  shakes  hands 
together, — I  means  trunks, — and  then  Windy 
unshackles  her,  and  she  follows  us  along  just  as 
gentle  as  a  kitten  to  them  freight-yards  over 
on  Tenth  Avenue  where  her  future  travelling 
home  is  waiting  for  her.  It's  a  box-car,  with 
one  end  rigged  up  with  bunks  as  a  boudoir  for 
me  and  Windy,  and  the  rest  of  it  fitted  out  as  a 
private  stateroom  for  Emily. 

"From  that  time  on,  for  quite  a  spell,  we're 
just  the  same  as  one  big  happy  family,  as  we 
goes  a-jauntily  touring  from  place  to  place. 

"We're  playin'  the  Big  Time,  which  means 
week  stands  and  no  hard  jumps.  Emily's  a 
hit,  a  knock-out  and  a  riot  wherever  she  appears. 
She  knows  it  too,  but  success  don't  go  to  her 
head,  and  she  don't  never  get  no  attacks  of  this 

here  complaint  which  they  calls  temper 'rnent. 
__ 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

I  always  figgered  out  that  temper'ment,  when 
a  grand  wopra  singster  has  it,  is  just  plain  old 
temper  when  it  afflicts  a  bricklayer.  I  don't 
know  what  form  it  would  take  if  it  should  seize 
on  a  bull,  but  Emily  appears  to  be  absolutely 
immune.  Give  her  a  ton  of  hay  and  one  sack 
of  peanuts  a  day,  and  she's  just  as  placid  as  a 
great  gross  of  guinea  pigs.  Behind  the  scenes 
she  never  makes  no  trouble,  but  chums  with 
the  stage-hands  and  even  sometimes  with  the 
actors,  thus  proving  that  she  ain't  stuck  up. 

"When  the  time  comes  for  Emily  to  do  her 
turn,  she  just  goes  ambling  on  behind  Windy 
and  cuts  up  more  didoes  than  any  trick-mule 
that  ever  lived.  She  smokes  a  pipe,  and  she 
toots  on  a  brass  horn,  and  waits  on  table  while 
Windy  pretends  to  eat,  and  stands  on  her  head, 
and  plays  baseball  with  him  and  so  forth  and 
so  on,  for  fifteen  minutes,  winding  up  by  waving 
the  Amurikin  flag  over  her  head.  But  all  this 
time  she's  keeping  one  eye  on  me,  where  I'm 
standing  in  the  wings  with  a  sack  of  peanuts  in 
my  pocket  waiting  for  her  to  come  off.  Every 
time  she  works  over  toward  my  side  of  the 
stage,  she  makes  little  hoydenish  remarks  to  me 
in  her  native  language.  It  ain't  long  until  I 
can  make  out  everything  she  says.  I've  been 
pedling  the  bull  too  long  not  to  be  able  to 
understand  it  when  spoke  by  a  native. 

"For  upwards  of  two  months  things  goes  along 
just  beautiful.  Then  we  strikes  a  town  out  in 
Illinois  where  business  ain't  what  it  used  to  be, 


THE      BULL     CALLED     EMILY 

if  indeed  it  ever  was.  Along  about  the  middle 
of  the  week  the  young  feller  that's  doing  the 
press-work  for  the  house  comes  to  me  and  asks 
me  if  I  ain't  got  an  idea  in  my  system  that  might 
make  a  good  press-stunt. 

"There's  an  inspiration  comes  to  me  and  I 
suggests  to  him  that  maybe  he  might  go  ahead 
and  make  an  announcement  that  following  the 
Saturday  matinee,  Emily  the  Pluperfect,  Pon 
derous,  Pachydermical  Performer,  direct  from 
the  court  of  the  reigning  Roger  of  Simla  County, 
India,  will  hold  a  reception  on  the  stage  to  meet 
her  little  friends,  each  and  every  one  of  whom 
will  be  expected  to  bring  her  a  bag  of  peanuts. 

"That  listens  all  right,'  says  this  lad,  'pro 
viding  she  likes  peanuts.' 

"'Providing  she  likes  'em?'  I  says.  'Son,' 
I  says,  'if  that  bull  ever  has  to  take  the  cure  for 
the  drug-habit,  it'll  be  on  account  of  peanuts. 
If  you  don't  think  she  likes  peanuts,  a  dime  will 
win  you  a  trip  to  the  Holy  Lands,'  I  says. 
'Why,'  I  says,  'Emily's  middle  name  is  Peanuts. 
Offhand,'  I  says,  'I  don't  know  precisely  how 
many  peanuts  there  are,'  I  says,  'because  if  I 
ever  heard  the  exact  figures,  I've  forgot  'em, 
but  I'd  like  to  lay  you  a  little  eight  to  five  that 
Emily  can  chamber  all  the  peanuts  in  the  world 
and  then  set  down  right  where  she  happens 
to  be,  to  wait  for  next  year's  crop  to  come  onto 
the  market.  That's  how  much  she  cares  for 
peanuts,'  I  says. 

"Well,  that  convinces  him,  and  he  hurries 
__         .  , 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

off  to  write  his  little  piece  about  Emily's  peanut 
reception.  The  next  day,  which  is  Friday,  the 
announcement  is  in  both  the  papers.  Saturday 
after  lunch  when  I  strolls  round  to  the  show- 
shop  for  the  matinee,  one  glance  around  the 
corner  from  the  stage  entrance  proves  to  me 
that  our  little  social  function  is  certainly  start 
ing  out  to  be  a  success.  The  street  in  front  is 
lined  on  both  sides  with  dagos  with  peanut- 
stands,  selling  peanuts  to  the  population  as 
fast  as  they  can  pass  'em  out;  and  there's  a  long 
line,  mainly  kids,  at  the  box-office.  I  goes  on 
in  and  takes  a  flash  at  the  front  of  the  house 
through  the  peephole  in  the  curtain,  and  the 
place  is  already  jam  full.  If  there's  one  kid 
out  there,  there's  a  thousand,  and  every  tiny 
tot  has  got  a  sack  of  peanuts  clutched  in  his  or 
her  chubby  fist,  as  the  case  may  be.  And  say, 
listen:  there's  a  smell  in  the  air  like  a  prairie 
fire  running  through  a  Georgia  goober-king's 
plantation. 

"I  goes  back  to  where  Emily  is  hitched,  and 
she's  weaving  to  and  fro  on  her  legs  and  water 
ing  at  the  mouth  until  she  just  naturally  can't 
control  her  own  riparian  rights.  She's  done 
smelt  that  smell  too. 

"'Honey  gal,'  I  says  to  her,  'it  shore  looks 
to  me  like  you're  due  to  get  your  fullupances  of 
the  succulential  ground-pea  of  the  Sunny  South 
land  this  day.' 

"She's  so  grateful  she  tries  to  kiss  me,  but  I 

ducks.     All  through  her  turn  she  dribbles  from 

__  


THE     BULL     CALLED     EMILY 

the  chin  like  a  defective  fire-hydrant,  and  I  can 
tell  that  she  ain't  got  her  mind  on  her  business. 
She's  too  busy  thinking  about  peanuts.  When 
she's  got  through  and  taken  her  bows,  the 
manager  leaves  the  curtain  up  and  Emily  steps 
back  behind  a  rope  that  a  couple  of  the  hands 
stretches  acrosst  the  stage,  with  me  standing  on 
one  side  of  her  and  Windy  on  the  other;  and 
then  a  couple  more  hands  shoves  a  wooden 
runway  acrosst  the  orchestra  rail  down  into  one 
of  the  side  aisles;  and  then  the  house-manager 
invites  Emily's  young  friends  to  march  up  the 
runway  and  crosst  over  from  left  to  right, 
handing  out  their  freewill  offerings  to  her  as 
they  pass. 

"During  this  pleasant  scene,  as  the  manager 
explains,  Emily's  dauntless  owner,  the  world- 
famous  Professor  Zendavesta  Jordan,  meaning 
Windy,  will  lecture  on  the  size,  dimensions, 
habits  and  quaint  peculiarities  of  this  wondrous 
creature.  That  last  part  suits  Windy  right 
down  to  the  ground,  him  being,  as  I  told  you 
before,  the  kind  of  party  who's  never  so  happy 
as  when  he's  started  his  mouth  and  gone  away 
and  left  it  running. 

"For  maybe  a  half  a  minute  after  the  house- 
manager  finishes  his  little  spiel,  the  kids  sort  of 
hang  back.  Then  the  rush  starts;  and  take  it 
from  me,  little  one,  it's  some  considerable  rush. 
Here  they  come  up  that  runway — tiny  tots  in 
blue,  and  tiny  tots  in  red,  and  tiny  tots  in  white; 
tiny  tots  with  their  parents,  guardians  or  nurses, 
[  397  ] 


FROM      PLACE      TO      PLACE 

and  tiny  tots  without  none;  tiny  tots  that  are 
beginning  to  outgrow  the  tiny  tottering  stage, 
and  other  varieties  of  tiny  tots  too  numerous  to 
mention.  And  clutched  in  each  and  every 
tiny  tot's  chubby  hand  is  a  bag  of  peanuts, 
five-cent  size  or  ten-cent  size,  but  mostly  five- 
cent  size.  As  Emily  sees  'em  coming,  she  smiles 
until  she  looks  in  the  face  like  one  of  these  here 
old-fashioned  red-brick  Colonial  fireplaces,  with 
an  overgrown  black  Christmas  stocking  hanging 
down  from  the  centre  of  the  mantel. 

"Up  comes  the  first  and  foremost  of  the  tiny 
tots.  The  Santy  Claus  stocking  reaches  out  and 
annexes  the  free-will  offering.  There's  a  faint 
crunching  sound;  that  there  sack  of  peanuts 
has  went  to  the  bourne  from  out  which  no  pea 
nut,  up  until  that  time,  has  ever  been  known 
to  return;  and  Emily  is  smiling  benevolently 
and  reaching  out  for  the  next  sack.  And 
behind  the  second  kid  is  the  third  kid,  and 
behind  the  third  kid  still  more  kids,  and  as  far 
as  the  human  eye  can  reach,  there  ain't  nothing 
on  the  horizon  of  that  show-shop  but  just  kids — 
kids  and  peanuts. 

"It  certainly  was  a  beauteous  spectacle  to 
behold  so  many  of  the  dear  little  ones  advancing 
up  that  runway  with  peanuts.  To  myself  I 
says:  *I  guess  I'm  a  bad  little  suggester,  eh, 
what?  Here's  Emily  getting  all  this  free 
provender  and  Windy  talking  his  fool  head  off 
and  the  house  getting  all  this  advertising  and 
none  of  us  out  a  cent  for  any  part  of  it.' 

[398]     " ' 


THE     BULL     CALLED     EMILY 

"In  about  ten  minutes,  though,  I'm  struck  by 
the  fact  that  Emily's  original  outburst  of 
enthusiasm  appears  slightly  on  the  wane.  It 
seems  to  me  she  ain't  reaching  out  for  the  free 
will  offerings  with  quite  so  much  eagersomeness 
as  she  was  displaying  a  spell  back.  Also  I  takes 
notice  that  the  wrinkles  in  her  turn-turn  are 
filling  out  so  that  she's  beginning  to  lose  some 
of  that  deflated  or  punctured  look  so  common 
amongst  bulls. 

"Still,  I  don't  have  no  apprehensions,  but 
thinks  to  myself  that  any  bull  which  can  eat 
half  a  ton  of  hay  for  breakfast  certainly  is  com 
petent  to  take  in  a  couple  of  wagon-loads  of 
peanuts  for  five  o'clock  tea.  Even  at  that  I 
figgers  that  it  won't  do  no  harm  to  coach  Emily 
along  a  little. 

"'Go  to  it,  baby  mine,'  I  says  to  her.  *You 
ain't  hardly  started.  Here's  a  chance,'  I  says, 
'to  establish  a  new  world's  record  for  peanuts.' 

"That  remark  appears  to  spur  her  up  for  a 
minute  or  so,  but  something  seems  to  keep  on 
warning  me  that  her  heart  ain't  in  the  work  to 
the  extent  it  has  been.  Windy  don't  see 
nothing  out  of  the  way,  he  being  congenially 
engaged  in  shooting  off  his  face,  but  I'm  more 
or  less  concerned  by  certain  mighty  significant 
facts.  For  one  thing,  Emily  ain't  eatin'  sacks 
and  all  any  more;  she's  emptying  the  peanuts 
out  and  throwing  the  paper  bags  aside.  Like 
wise  her  work  ain't  clean  and  smooth  like  it  was. 
Her  underlip  is  swinging  down,  and  she's 
[399] 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

beginning  to  drool  loose  goobers  off  the  lower 
end  of  it,  and  her  low  but  intelligent  forehead 
is  all  furrowed  up  as  if  with  deep  thought. 

"Observing  all  of  which,  I  says  to  myself,  I 
says:  'If  ever  Emily  should  start  to  cramp, 
the  world's  cramping  record  is  also  in  a  fair  way 
to  be  busted  this  afternoon.  I  certainly  do 
hope,'  I  says,  'that  Emily  don't  go  and  get 
herself  overextended.' 

"You  see,  I'm  trusting  for  the  best,  because 
I  realises  that  it  wouldn't  do  to  call  off  the 
reception  right  in  the  middle  of  it  on  account 
of  the  disappointment  amongst  the  tiny  tots 
that  ain't  passed  in  review  yet  and  the  general 
ill-feeling  that's  sure  to  follow. 

"I  should  say  about  two  hundred  tiny  tots 
have  gone  by,  with  maybe  five  hundred  more 
still  in  line  waiting  their  turn,  when  there  halts 
in  front  of  Emily  a  fancy-dressed  tiny  tot 
which  he  must've  been  the  favourite  tiny  tot 
of  the  richest  man  in  town,  because  he's  holding 
in  his  hands  a  bag  of  peanuts  fully  a  foot  deep. 
It  couldn't  of  cost  a  cent  less'n  half  a  dollar, 
that  bag.  Emily  reaches  for  the  contribution, 
fondles  it  for  a  second  or  two  and  starts  to 
upend  it  down  her  throat;  and  then  with  a  low, 
sad,  hopeless  cry  she  drops  it  on  the  stage  and 
sort  of  shrugs  her  front  legs  forward  and  stands 
there  with  her  head  bent  and  her  ears  twitching 
same  as  if  she's  listening  for  something  that's 
still  a  long  ways  off  but  coming  closter  fast. 
And  at  that  precise  instant  I  sees  the  first 
"  [400]  " 


THE      BULL     CALLED     EMILY 

cramp  start  from  behind  her  right-hand  shoul 
der-blade  and  begin  to  work  south.  Say,  it 
was  just  like  being  present  at  the  birth  of  an 
earthquake. 

"Moving  slow  and  deliberate,  Emily  turns 
around  in  her  tracks,  shivering  all  over,  and 
then  I  sees  the  cramp  ripple  along  until  it 
reaches  her  cargo-hold  and  strikes  inward.  It 
lifts  all  four  of  her  feet  clean  off  the  floor,  and 
when  she  comes  down  again,  she  comes  down 
travelling.  There's  some  scenery  in  her  way, 
and  some  furniture  and  props  and  one  thing 
and  other,  but  she  don't  trouble  to  go  round 
'em.  She  goes  through  'em,  as  being  a  more 
simple  and  direct  way,  and  a  minute  later  she 
steps  out  through  the  stage  entrance  into  the 
crowded  marts  of  trade  with  half  of  a  centre 
door  fancy  hung  around  her  neck.  Me  and 
Windy  is  trailing  along,  urging  her  to  be  ca'm 
but  keeping  at  a  reasonably  safe  distance  while 
doing  so.  Behind  us  as  we  comes  forth  we 
can  hear  the  voices  of  many  tiny  tots  upraised 
in  skeered  cries. 

"Being  a  Saturday  afternoon,  the  business 
section  is  fairly  well  crowded  with  people,  and 
I  suppose  it's  only  natural  that  the  unexpected 
appearance  upon  the  main  street  of  the  largest 
bull  in  captivity,  wearing  part  of  a  cottage  set 
for  a  collar  and  making  sounds  through  her 
snout  like  a  switch-engine  in  distress,  should 
cause  some  surprised  comment  amongst  the 
populace.  In  fact,  I  should  say  the  surprised 


FROM      PLACE     TO      PLACE 

comment  might  of  been  heard  for  fully  half  a 
mile  away. 

"Emily  hesitates  as  she  reaches  the  sidewalk, 
as  though  she  ain't  decided  yet  in  her  own  mind 
just  where  she'll  go,  and  then  her  agonised  eye 
falls  on  all  them  peanut-roasters  standing  in  a 
double  row  alongside  the  curbings  on  both  sides 
of  the  street.  The  Italian  and  Greek  gents 
who  owns  'em  are  already  departing  hence  in  a 
hurried  manner,  but  they've  left  their  outfits 
behind,  and  right  away  it's  made  plain  to  me  by 
her  actions  that  Emily  regards  the  sight  as  a 
part  of  a  general  conspiracy  to  feed  her  some 
peanuts  when  she  already  has  more  peanuts 
than  what  she  really  required  for  personal  use. 
She  reaches  out  for  the  first  peanut-machine 
in  the  row,  curls  her  trunk  around  it  and  slams 
it  against  a  brick  wall  so  hard  that  it  imme 
diately  begins  to  look  something  like  a  flivver 
car  which  has  been  in  a  severe  collision  and 
something  like  a  tin  accordion  that's  had  hard 
treatment  from  a  careless  owner.  With  this 
for  a  beginning,  Emily  starts  in  to  get  real  rough 
with  them  roasters.  For  about  three  minutes 
it's  rainin'  hot  charcoal  fand  hot  peanuts 
and  wooden  wheels  and  metal  cranks  and 
sheet-iron  drums  all  over  that  part  of  the  fair 
city. 

"Having  put  the  enemy's  batteries  out  of 
commission,  Emily  now  swings  around  and 
heads  back  in  the  opposite  direction  with 
everybody  giving  her  plenty  of  room.  I  heard 


THE      BULL      CALLED      EMILY 

afterward  that  some  citizens  went  miles  out  of 
their  way  in  order  to  give  her  room.  Emily's 
snout  is  aimed  straight  up  as  though  she's  crav 
ing  air,  and  her  tail  is  standing  straight  out 
behind,  stiff  as  a  poker  except  that  about  every 
few  seconds  a  painful  quiver  runs  through  it 
from  the  end  that's  nearest  Emily  to  the  end 
that's  furtherest  away  from  her.  Windy  is 
hoofing  it  along  about  fifty  feet  back  of  her, 
uttering  soothing  remarks  and  entreating  her 
to  listen  to  reason,  and  I'm  trailing  Windy;  but 
for  oncet  Emily  don't  hearken  none  to  her 
master's  voice. 

"Out  of  the  tail  of  my  eye  I  see  a  fat  lady 
start  to  faint,  and  when  she's  right  in  the  middle 
of  the  faint,  change  her  mind  about  it  and  do  a 
back  flip  into  a  plumber's  shop,  the  purtiest  you 
ever  seen.  I  see  a  policeman  dodge  out  from 
behind  a  lamp-post  as  Emily  approaches,  and 
reach  for  his  gun.  I  yells  to  him  not  to  shoot, 
but  it's  unnecessary  advice,  because  he's  only 
chucking  his  hardware  away  so's  to  lighten  him 
up  for  a  couple  of  hundred  yards  of  straightaway 
sprinting.  I  see  Emily  make  a  side-swipe  with 
her  nozzle  at  a  stout  gent  who's  in  the  act  of 
climbing  a  telegraph-pole  hand  over  hand. 
She  misses  the  seat  of  his  pants  by  a  fraction  of 
an  inch,  and  as  he  reaches  the  first  cross-arm 
out  of  her  reach,  and  drapes  his  form  acrosst  it, 
the  reason  for  her  sudden  animosity  towards 
him  is  explained.  A  glass  jar  falls  out  of  one  of 
his  hip  pockets  and  is  dashed  to  fragments  on 
[403]  ' 


FROM      PLACE     TO     PLACE 

the  cruel  bricks  far  below,  and  its  contents  is 
then  seen  to  be  peanut  butter. 

"I  sees  these  things  as  if  in  a  troubled  dream, 
and  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  me  and  Emily  are  all 
alone  in  a  deserted  city.  Exceptin'  for  us  two, 
there  ain't  a  soul  in  sight  nowheres.  Even 
Windy  has  mysteriously  vanished.  And  now 
Emily,  in  passing  along,  happens  to  look  inside 
a  fruit-store,  and  through  the  window  her  un 
happy  glance  rests  upon  a  bin  full  of  peanuts. 
So  she  just  presses  her  face  against  the  pane 
like  Little  Mary  in  the  po'm,  and  at  that  the 
entire  front  end  of  that  establishment  seems  to 
give  away  in  a  very  simultaneous  manner,  and 
Emily  reaches  in  through  the  orifices  and  plucks 
out  the  contents  of  that  there  store,  including 
stock,  fixtures  and  good  will,  and  throws  'em 
backward  over  her  shoulder  in  a  petulant  and 
hurried  way.  But  I  takes  notice  that  she 
throws  the  bin  of  peanuts  much  farther  than 
the  grapefruit  or  the  pineapples  or  the  glass 
show-cases  containing  the  stick  candy.  The 
proprietor  must  of  been  down  in  the  cellar 
at  the  moment,  else  I  judge  she'd  of  fetched 
him  forth  too. 

"Thus  we  continues  on  our  way,  me  and 
Emily,  in  the  midst  of  a  vast  but  boisterous 
solitude, — for  while  we  can't  see  the  inhabi 
tants,  we  can  hear  'em, — until  we  arrive  at  the 
foot  of  Main  Street,  and  there  we  beholds  the 
railroad  freight-depot  looming  before  us.  I 
can  tell  that  Emily  is  wishful  to  pass  through 


THE      BULL     CALLED     EMILY 

this  structure.  There  ain't  no  opening  on  the 
nigh  side  of  it,  but  that  don't  hinder  Emily 
none.  She  gives  one  heave  with  her  shoulders 
and  makes  a  door  and  passes  on  in  and  out 
again  on  the  far  side  by  the  same  methods.  I 
arrives  around  the  end  of  the  shed  just  in  time 
to  see  her  slide  down  a  steep  grade  through 
somebody's  truck-garden  and  sink  down  upon 
her  heaving  flank  in  a  little  hollow.  As  I  halts 
upon  the  brow  of  the  hill,  she  looks  up  at  me 
very  reproachful,  and  I  can  see  that  her  preva 
lent  complexion  is  beginning  to  turn  awful  wan 
and  pale.  Son,  take  it  from  me,  when  a  full- 
grown  she-bull  gets  wan,  she's  probably  the 
wannest  thing  there  is  in  the  world. 

'" Stand  back,  Scandalous,'  she  moans  to  me 
in  bull-language.  *I  don't  bear  you  no  grudge, 
— it  was  a  mistake  in  judgment  on  the  part  of 
all  of  us, — but  stand  back  and  give  me  room. 
Up  till  this  time,'  she  says,  'I've  been  po'rly, 
but  something  seems  to  tell  me  that  now  I'm 
about  to  be  what  you  might  call  real  indisposed.' 

"Which  she  certainly  was. 

"So,  after  a  while,  a  part  of  the  police  force 
come  along,  stepping  slow  and  cautious,  and 
they  halts  themselves  in  the  protecting  shadows 
of  the  freight-shed  or  what's  left  of  it,  and  they 
beckon  me  to  come  near  'em,  and  when  I 
responds,  they  tell  me  I'm  under  arrest  for 
inciting  riots  and  disturbances  and  desecration 
of  property  and  various  other  crimes  and  mis- 
demeanours.  I  suggests  to  'em  that  if  they're 
[405  ] 


FROM      PLACE     TO      PLACE 

really  craving  to  arrest  anybody,  they  should 
oughter  begin  with  Emily,  but  they  don't  fall  in 
with  the  idea.  They  marches  me  up  to  the 
police-station,  looking  over  their  shoulders  at 
frequent  intervals  to  be  sure  the  anguished 
Emily  ain't  coming  too,  and  when  we  get  there, 
I  find  Windy  in  the  act  of  being  forcibly  de 
tained  in  the  front  office. 

"Immediately  after  I  arrived,  the  payoff 
started  and  continued  unabated  for  quite  a 
period  of  time.  First  we  settled  in  full  with 
the  late  proprietors  of  them  defunct  peanut- 
roasting  machines;  and  then  the  owner  of  the 
wrecked  fruitstore,  and  the  man  that  owned 
the  opera-house,  and  the  stout  lady  who'd 
fainted  from  the  waist  up  but  was  now  entirely 
recovered,  and  the  fleshy  gent  who'd  climbed 
the  telegraph-pole,  and  the  railroad  agent  and 
some  several  hundred  others  who  had  claims 
for  property  damage  or  mental  anguish  or 
shockages  to  their  nervous  systems  or  shortage 
of  breath  or  loss  of  trade  or  other  injuries — all 
these  were  in  line,  waiting. 

"We  was  reduced  to  a  case  ten-spot  before 
the  depot  agent,  who  came  last,  lined  up  for 
his'n;  but  he  took  one  good  look  and  said  he 
wouldn't  be  a  hog  about  it — we  could  keep  that 
ten-specker,  and  he'd  be  satisfied  just  to  take 
over  our  private  car  in  consideration  of  the  loss 
inflicted  by  Emily  to  his  freight-shed.  I  was 
trying  to  tell  him  how  much  we  appreciated  his 

kindness,  but  the  chief  of  police  wouldn't  let  me 
__ 


THE      BULL      CALLED      EMILY 

finish — said  he  couldn't  permit  that  kind  of 
language  to  be  used  in  a  police-station,  said  it 
might  corrupt  the  morals  of  some  of  his  young 
policemen. 

"So  everything  passed  off  very  pleasant  and 
satisfactory  'at  the  police-station,  but  Emily 
spent  the  evening  and  the  ensuing  night  right 
where  she  was,  voicing  her  regrets  at  frequent 
intervals.  Along  toward  morning  she  felt 
easier,  although  sadly  depleted  in  general 
appearance,  and  about  daylight  her  and  Windy 
bid  me  good-by  and  went  off  acrosst-country 
afoot,  aiming  to  catch  up  with  Ringbold 
Brothers'  circus,  which  was  reported  to  be 
operating  somewhere  in  that  vicinity.  As  for 
me,  I'd  had  enough  for  the  time  being  of  the 
refined  amusement  business.  I  took  my  half 
of  that  lone  sawbuck  which  was  all  that  was  left 
to  us  from  our  frittered  and  dissipated  fortunes, 
and  I  started  east,  travelling  second  class  and 
living  very  frugally  on  the  way.  And  that  was 
about  all  that  happened,  worthy  of  note,  with 
the  exception  of  a  violent  personal  dispute 
occurring  between  me  and  a  train-butch  coming 
out  of  Ashtabula." 

"What  was  the  cause?"  I  asked  as  Scandalous 
stood  up  and  smoothed  down  his  waistcoat. 

"I  had  just  one  thin  dime  left,"  said  Scan 
dalous,  "and  I  explained  my  predicament  to 
the  butch,  saying  as  how  I  wanted  what  was 
the  most  filling  thing  he  had  for  the  price — and 

he  offered  me  a  sack  of  peanuts!" 

'""""" [407] 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
D^v  AND  TO  J$i.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


OBRARY  USE 

/|A^_ 

R-i  T  n       A   *f- 

'*'-ie^ 

MAR    4  -lytft 

^Vfr 

F£  15    7  r\  «0  ,n 

1^1  CP 

+  J1942S 

20^r'6lb 

AUG   17  1944 

,   .      r,    , 

AUG  2  2  1968  4  6 

RFO'P  LD 

filIP  1  1  '68  -2PM 

•  *,  —  •  mji-    UM         •••-•-r 

MUb  J.  A  uu    iwriii 
ADD       ^  W9? 

JAN  IS  iy^7 

APR      w    W* 

A?%   141948 

APR    27  1848 

UNov;57lYIF 

RECD  uu 

NCV    u     ; 

LD  21-100m-7,'39(402s) 

YB  60558 

U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


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